


The Softest of Winds

by inkyserifs



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Art, Arthur is kinda a bit of an asshole, Digital Art, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Injury, Misunderstandings, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Build, Smut, made up cultures and traditions, mostly self indulgent romance, my first attempt at a short and complete original work, some character development, tags will be added as needed, the porn will come later, we'll see how it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyserifs/pseuds/inkyserifs
Summary: Arthur is not convinced he'll be able to stop himself from killing the arrogant, prissy asshole he's supposed to marry before their journey is up. Unfortunately, he has to restrain himself - at least if he wants to see the peace his Father worked so hard to foster. It's no easy task, but as they make their way through the harsh and windy Wildlands, something even more disturbing comes to his attention.The arrogant asshole in question is actually... interesting. Attractive, even. The problem is, he's also insufferable, and hates Arthur down to his very bones. There is no law that says they must like each other to get married - but wouldn't that make everything just a little bit easier?





	1. The Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. This is obviously original fiction so I don't expect a lot of attention, but I figured putting something out there might motivate me to actually write more. Sit back and relax. Grab some coffee or tea (or a bevrage of your choice). 
> 
> I intend for this to be fairly short and sweet -- mostly it's an exercise in writing random fluff and porn. I've never done this before and I have no beta or anything like that, so be gentle. That said, all comments are of course welcome.

Prince Lucien of Mordrego looked like exactly the sort of man Arthur preferred to stay away from.

He was staring at Arthur with barely masked disdain, his lips thinned and eyes narrowed, his back almost painfully straight and his jaw clenched. He was not bothering to conceal his dislike, his expression petulant and unhappy as they waited in the gardens in the cool shade of the patio, keeping a generous amount of space and two chairs between them. The sun was setting, bathing them in pinkish light and long shadows, and Arthur kept his eyes firmly on the horizon where it disappeared behind a wild swirl of violet clouds. Surrounded by blooming lilacs and neatly groomed castle grounds as they were, the view should have been picturesque, the evening relaxing. Instead, the heady scent of flowers seemed to choke the breath out of Arthur’s lungs. He’d never been this anxious in his life, he thought. Not when he’d climbed the sycamore when he was a boy and couldn’t get down, not when he started training with the sword as his father had commanded. Not even last year, when the wars in the east took him far from home and into battle. This feeling was something else. He cast a furtive, sideways glance at his companion.

Lucien’s features were entirely too pointy, and his cheekbones looked liable to take someone’s eye out, to say nothing of his chin or the widow’s peak of his hairline. His skin — or what he could see of it, because his clothing was so conservative and tightly laced it was a minor miracle he could still breathe — looked soft and pale, as if he’d never spent more than a second outdoors without some servant shielding him from the sun with a parasol. He was even wearing gloves; white, silky and expensive ones. There was something decidedly feminine about the way he held his folded hands in his lap. In fact, Arthur decided that he looked quite a lot like a rather waspish woman; colorless, slender, with white-blond hair pulled back into a tight braid that went down to the middle of his back. The rapier strapped to his side was the only dangerous looking thing about him, and that was encased in a sheath decorated with intricate, lacy looking floral patterns and studded with tiny sapphires. It looked rather well matched to the embroidered officer’s jacket he wore — a mockery of formal military wear, made from some soft and supple cloth that clung to his body like a second skin. It was dark blue, threaded through with silver, and quite possibly the least practical looking garment Arthur had ever seen on a man.

In a word, he looked soft. Not husband material. Not king material.

Yet here they were.

The silence was just shy of unbearable, but Arthur didn’t want to be the first to break it. Oh, they would have to learn to be civil eventually, but until Arthur’s father arrived he had no intention of making meaningless small talk. There simply had to be someone else. They couldn’t expect him to marry this… this waif. He looked pretty enough, sure, but so delicate, to say nothing of the way he was looking at Arthur down his nose.

Gerome cleared his throat as he approached, and Arthur thought he might pass out from sheer relief. “My Prince, shall I bring you and your betrothed some refreshments?”

Arthur looked up. He loved Gerome — he really did — but he was in a foul mood, and as much as he wanted to jump up and offer to bring the damn drinks himself, he knew he had… duties. “I’m all right,” he said through his teeth. “Our guest is, of course, welcome to ask for anything he desires.”

Gerome bowed deeply, turning towards the Prince. His weathered face slipped into an easy, kind smile. “How may I be of service?”

Lucien’s tight expression didn’t change, but he tucked a strand of escaped hair behind his ear in a gesture that looked almost human. Arthur felt something hopeful flicker in his chest. “Water will be fine.” His voice was quiet and low, slightly accented in a way that hardened his consonants just a bit, and not at all what Arthur had expected. He blinked, frowning slightly when the Prince shot him an icy glare. His eyes, Arthur noted, were a clear, cornflower blue.

Gerome nodded gallantly and left the two of them alone. He was smirking, the bastard, as if there was anything amusing about this whole situation.

Arthur briefly considered opening his mouth. He supposed there was some merit to at least getting to know the man. Perhaps underneath the prickly, porcupine-like exterior, was a person who might become, if not his friend, then at least an ally of sorts.  
He cleared his throat. Two perfectly groomed eyebrows shot up in unison, a picture of silent judgment. Arthur gritted his teeth around the words working their way out of his throat. “Perhaps— it would be prudent — to have a conversation before our fathers arrive.”

Lucien sniffed slightly, tilted his head. “I’m not sure I see the reason. If you wanted us to become better acquainted, your first step should have been an introduction, not staring at me like you’d enjoy a nice murder.” The look he gave Arthur was pointed. Like his bony elbows.

Arthur gaped at him. “You little— Me? I was the one staring?”

Lucien shot him a rather pitying glare, like it was taking all of his energy not to explain, very slowly, just how stupid he thought Arthur was to ask such a question. He didn’t dignify his indignant spluttering with a response, his gaze sliding away and fixing on the dark, mahogany table in front of them. There was a bundle of wildflowers in the center, tied into a rather fascinating ring shape that burst with the color of various blossoms, and it was clearly far more interesting than Arthur.

“I thought it would be wise to compare strategies,” Arthur tried again. “I imagine we can think of a way of dissolving this arrangement before it comes to fruition, as long as we work together.”

The Prince said nothing, just gave Arthur another venomous look, his mouth twisting briefly into a frown. Which, Arthur supposed, was an answer in and of itself. He sighed, reaching out to pick a violet out of the flower wreath so he would have something to twirl aimlessly between his fingers.

Gerome returned, smiling from ear to ear. He’d brought two glasses of water on a silver tray, along with a bushel of grapes and a little plate of flaky pastries with some kind of creamy filling. He bowed graciously at Lucien, who gave him a cool look and colder silence in return. Gerome’s face fell slightly, but he was ever the professional as he set down the food and explained that the pastries were filled with vanilla bean paste and egg custard.

And that was what decided it, really. There was simply no chance of them ever getting along. He could be a bastard to everyone else for all Arthur cared, he could be snotty and turn his nose up and fan his face or whatever it was people like him did when their sensibilities were offended, but there was no forgiving a man who couldn’t be bothered with thanking Gerome.

Gerome, who was sweet and kind, and bowed again before taking a step back into the gardens, and who gave Arthur a concerned look before he left.

He stared at the servant’s retreating back before turning the force of his glare on the Prince of Mordrego again, no longer caring much whether he appeared pleasant or not. “Would it kill you to act halfway civil?”

Lucien blinked at him, making a face. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know how it’s done in your country, but here we acknowledge the existence of others,” he hissed. He was aware he was possibly overreacting. A little. But the eye roll Lucien gave him in response told him all he needed to know. He was dealing with _that_ kind of royalty.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you feeling neglected?” he replied icily. “Shall I come and sit on your lap?”

Arthur’s face burned. “You know damn well I wasn’t talking about —”

Someone coughed.

Thero was walking up the footpath and staring at him with a mix of exasperation and fondness — a look he had perfected over the years of dealing with a boy he’d described as insufferable on more than one occasion. His eyes were steely but not unkind, and even though Arthur had determined he wasn’t on speaking terms with him at all as long as this betrothal was still in the works, he found himself relaxing. His father’s presence was strong, steady, familiar. There was a reason his people sometimes called him the Sun Emperor  — he exuded warmth and strength — the kind that was nurturing instead of authoritarian, comforting more than it was oppressive. His father knew how to demand respect, but he didn’t have to do it often. He was well loved by his people. The kingdom had prospered steadily under his rule, the land more peaceful and richer than it had been in generations. With one small exception, of course. The cause of which was standing before him, arching his eyebrows just as his son had.  
He stood abruptly and bowed to his own father first, then to the man standing beside him.

If possible, he was even worse than the Prince. And his spitting image in more ways than one, his face equally pointy, equally closed off and icy, his clothing just as ostentatious and decorative and constricted. He wasn’t as pale, his hair was a deeper auburn color, and the slight wrinkles made him look less bratty and more distinguished, but there wasn’t a single trace of kindness in his face; only that cold disdain Arthur was already getting used to seeing.

“King Valegar,” Arthur said. “It is an honor.”

Valegar inclined his head slightly in greeting. Then he looked to his son, his lips thinning slightly. “I trust you and Lucien have become acquainted. It is important that the two of you get along.” His accent was heavier than his son’s, harsher. His voice was like honey and venom mixed together — sweet, but entirely untrustworthy.

“All is well,” Lucien said with a nod. He wasn’t a very good actor, because the motion was as stiff as his back. Arthur groaned internally. If they were going to make this work — not that Arthur was giving up, he still had every intention of convincing his father to break things off —  he was going to have to do a lot better than that. They would have functions to attend together, their own palace to manage, and on top of it all — a significant portion of contested territory that would be theirs to rule. The war in the East would end. Their alliance a symbolic harbinger of true peace.

His father had sounded calm and sincere as he explained it just the day before. The same day Arthur had returned from his last diplomatic journey to the towns along the Nior. Apparently, Father had needed him out of the way to arrange his marriage to the offspring of their longtime enemy. It figured. If Arthur had been there for the true negotiations, he might have thrown something. Perhaps a few somethings.

It just didn’t make sense. The alliance itself — betrothal, it was a betrothal — was a good idea, but Valegar had other children. Surely at least one of them hadn’t taken entirely after the father? A warrior like Eador would have been a far better match for Arthur — at least they’d have something in common. Shared experience, stories of battle to tell over the crackling of the hearth, a similar, tactical approach to their rule. What commonality could he find with Lucien, who had definitely never seen a day of battle or hardship in his life, and who’d grown up surrounded by opulence and wealth and possibly a million doting nannies?

The two kings sat across from their children, wearing identical, expertly schooled expressions, as they explained what the meeting was to entail. This was their time to talk, to express what they themselves desired from this union and negotiate anything that felt relevant, although Arthur knew that it was largely for the sake of tradition — the brunt of the discussions would have taken place earlier, and did not involve them. They were not monarchs — not yet, anyway — and their say in all of this was severely limited at best.

Someone should have passed the message along to Lucien, however. He sat at Arthur’s side with his chin tipped up haughtily, and when Valegar began to list the lands and titles that would become their common estate, his shoulders began to tense. And once the discussion reached the movement of various assets—

“No,” he said, voice clipped. “I’m not leaving Wyrd or the yearlings. They are mine.”

Arthur fought down an eye roll. Of course, Lucien would get his knickers in a twist over a few horses, of all things.

Valegar’s lips twitched. “They belong to Eador. I can’t give his best mare away to you.”

“Then I’ll buy her back from him.”

Valegar waved him off impatiently. “Then you will take that up with him after the wedding. Right now, there is the matter of your Yuhan to discuss.”

Lucien blanched, his eyes flicking briefly to Arthur’s face. He evidently didn’t like whatever he saw there, because he opened his mouth, frowned, closed it. “The Yuhan? But I thought—”

Arthur’s father interrupted him this time. “We thought it best to mix the traditions of our two countries. The Yuhan is important to your people, and so Arthur and you will go on the journey as required by tradition. The wedding itself will follow Lyran custom. We thought this wise, not only because of the symbolism for our nations but also for your own benefit. I imagine the two of you will appreciate spending some time together before the big day. Getting to know each other.” His voice was warm but allowed for no argument. The matter, as far as he saw, was closed.

Arthur’s fists clenched at his sides. “If I may,” he ground out. “With all due respect, Father. I don’t see how the Yuhan is applicable here. Our relationship does not need to be tested. This is not a love match. We —”

“Will learn to work together,” Thero said, his eyes turning quickly to steel. “The weeks you will spend in isolation will teach you much-needed humility and cooperation. You are the both of you hard-headed and stubborn. There is nothing to discuss.”

Arthur took a deep breath. Fine. This was fine. Weeks… multiple weeks, alone with no one but Lucien for company, in the Wildlands no less. That was okay. The would make do. The Yuhan was supposed to test a relationship — barely knowing Lucien was an advantage, really. It meant no messy feelings, no romantic frustrations, no real concern for one another that would make their journey more complicated. The only thing they had to do was keep their mouths shut so they wouldn’t kill each other.

He was so fucked.

And a part of him — a small, childish part of him — felt absurdly hurt. He’d always known he wouldn’t marry for love. But he’d trusted his father to take care of him, trusted him to love Arthur enough to find him a spouse that he could at least _grow_ to love, over time. Instead, Thero had gone behind his back and consulted Valegar with Arthur still far from home, with no say, not even an illusion of choice in the matter. Not even a moment to speak to his father alone before committing, to at least — at least express his concerns. They would have fallen on deaf ears perhaps, but at least Arthur wouldn’t be sitting here now, listening to the decisions that had already been made about his future like a child.

The conversation turned back to planning the Yuhan — the exact route, the provisions afforded to them, the duration of the journey — but Arthur was only half listening. He kept his eyes on the table, absently staring at the now crushed flower in his hands. He didn’t look at Lucien again. He didn’t speak.

There was nothing more to say.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

So I'm not the best artist or anything, and this isn't even exactly what I imagined the two of them to be like, but it's relatively close. Just wanted to throw my boys up here. I'll take it down if y'all hate it, lol XD  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't too boring for a first chapter! I just wanted to do a bit of setup. Next chapter will be from Lucien's perspective, and hopefully things will steadily become more interesting.


	2. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I can't do creative chapter titles for shit.
> 
> Also, apologies for the delay. Didn't get this out as soon as I wanted, but life got in the way super hard.

The morning they set out, Lucien was up long before the sun.

The last few days had been almost relaxing. He’d been shown to a comfortable guest chamber, given fresh clothes, books to read, and most importantly — solitude. Lucien had time to sleep, to empty his head of the awful swirl of anxiety that had been threatening to choke him for the majority of the last month. It didn’t feel safe exactly, not even with the armed guard who insisted he was there for Lucien’s benefit, but it felt predictable. Arthur, after their initial meeting, was nowhere to be found. His father had retreated to his own chambers and was busy seeing to the formalities of the betrothal, and King Thero had duties of his own. Lucien had nothing but time.

His only company was the manservant — Gerome — who brought him food and water, and stared  at him with brows furrowed in concern when he thought Lucien wasn’t looking. He’d been a steady presence, ever watchful and unwavering.

The man guarding his door was still snoring in his chair as Lucien pulled his jacket on and slipped outside. He knew he should sleep, especially now, especially with the Yuhan so close, but the curl of nausea in his gut made it impossible to close his eyes. His chest was too tight, his head swimming. He couldn’t think. Every fiber of his body felt stretched out and so tense he thought he might snap in half at any moment. The panic rising behind his ribs was exactly the kind of weakness he couldn’t afford — not now anyway, not in this strange country with all its unfamiliar smells and sultry air, far from home and entirely surrounded by his enemies.

He sought out Gerome. Lucien found that he rather liked the old man. He was tall and weedy, but his eyes were kind — trustworthy. He knew the man worked around the kitchens, so he made for them quickly, trying not to let his footsteps echo around the dark and grim halls of the castle. The sound was unnerving, almost skeletal somehow, and he shuddered slightly, tugging at his sleeves. He was glad he would not be forced to live here. There were too many shadows, and not nearly enough air.

He was lucky — Gerome had told him which part of the staff quarters he could be found in, and his directions had been precise. Lucien took a set of winding stone stairs down a floor, and found the heavy door slightly ajar.

Gerome was there, lovingly arranging plates and cups along wobbly wooden shelves lining the walls. The little room was cluttered, full of porcelain and cutlery stacked nearly to the ceiling. The grace with which the manservant moved between them was impressive, his slender frame ducking between precariously perched dishes. He looked up, did a double take, evidently shocked to see Lucien in the cramped, musty little cellar, and at this hour of the morning no less.

Then he bowed automatically, almost knocking over a pile of bowls in the process. Lucien reached out to steady them before they could fall, surprised at how heavy they felt, and at the tremor in his hands as he pushed them back into some kind of upright arrangement.

“My Lord,” Gerome said quietly, sounding troubled. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Lucien attempted a smile. “I need — I’d like to visit the stables. If I may?”

The servant gave him a long stare. Too long, really — Lucien was starting to feel desperate, the back of his neck prickling, a cold drop of sweat making its way down his back. His shirt felt damp, the fastenings at his neck might as well have been fingers, poised to choke. Gerome’s staring made him nervous. Had he made a mistake? Perhaps he was not allowed out, perhaps he was a prisoner here after all, and Gerome’s kindness had been a farce designed to lull him into quiet compliance. The thought made him feel a little ill. He was about to whirl around and leave, only the servant reached out suddenly, his hand light but surprisingly strong on Lucien’s forearm.

“Come with me,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. There was a warm twinkle in his eyes. “I know of a shortcut.”

They took a different door out of the cellar — one that led them up through the kitchens. There were maids and cooks milling about already, and a few of them looked up curiously, but otherwise paid them no mind as they scurried towards another side exit, down a dimly lit hallway, and finally outside.

This place was clearly not meant to be seen — at least not by guests. It didn’t look wild, exactly, but the paths cutting through the lawn were made of rougher stone, and the grass was speckled with a pleasant scatter of daisies and violet clover. The gardens out here smelled incredible; the cool wind carried the scent of fresh grass, honeysuckle, and a hint of manure that told him they were headed in the right direction. The breeze was brisk when it hit Lucien’s face, and he stopped, taking a steadying breath that felt shockingly good, loosening something heavy and painful in his chest.

He hadn’t realized how much a prisoner he’d felt until just now. He wondered what the future held for him, so far from both this land and his ancestral home, sharing a palace — a life — with a strange man. Was it to be freedom? Or slavery?

Gerome paused, his bushy eyebrows drawn down in worry. “Forgive me for the familiarity, my Lord, but are you absolutely certain you should be alone right now? Perhaps —”

“I’m all right,” Lucien said, more sharply than he’d intended. He pressed the heel of his hand to the center of his forehead. “I just need to think.”

Gerome nodded, kindly not pressing any further. “That, I can understand.”

They walked down an avenue shaded by neat rows of trees, right down a gentle hill. Lucien let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the stable came into view. It was a grand structure, surrounded by oak fencing and gravelly pathways, but the familiar sounds of stomping hooves and soft whinnies was immediately soothing. As was the sweet smell of fresh hay. It was familiar, almost like homecoming, and the unexpected warmth in his chest took him by surprise.

The servant took him inside, shooed off a stable boy that gave Lucien a slightly terrified stare. Then he turned back to Lucien, his eyes assessing. “Are you planning on making a run for it?” he asked with no preamble.

Lucien froze, considering. But there was no anger or censure in Gerome, only genuine question. “Would you stop me if I was?”

Gerome smiled gently. “No. But — I’d rather you didn’t leave, my Lord. I’ve grown rather used to having you around.”

Lucien wasn’t sure how he was meant to take that. In a few short hours, he’d be gone. Likely forever, one way or another. “I won’t run. I wanted to choose a mount.” His voice cracked ever so slightly mid-sentence. He cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his head.

Gerome’s eyes softened. He reached out hesitantly to place a warm hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “Change is always a bit frightening. But I can assure you that you’re in good hands. Arthur—”

“I’m not afraid.” Lucien did not want to talk about Arthur. Just hearing his name made his heart rate double. “I just need a good horse.”

Gerome nodded, shrugging. The concerned look on his face was quickly replaced with a polite smile. “Best leave you to it, then. Afraid I don’t know much about horses.”

Lucien nodded. He looked around, touched the rough, wooden planks of a stall door, the texture somehow grounding even through the thin fabric of his gloves. “Yes. Thank you. I hope I didn’t keep you from your duties.”

“Glad I could be of service.” He inclined his head, turning back towards the door. He stopped right before walking out. “I know it is not my place — but Arthur is a good man. If you ever need anything, I’m sure you need only ask.”  
Then he left, leaving Lucien entirely alone.

He sucked in a slightly shaky breath, then popped open the top buttons at his collar, hesitating only a moment before loosening the laces threatening to strangle him. His back felt damp and his clothes chafed at him, and for an awful moment he just wanted to go back to his room. Or better yet, sink to the ground, put his head between his knees, and curl up to sleep in the fragrant hay. Only he was absolutely sure his jacket would wrinkle, or heavens forbid, get dirty, and wouldn’t _that_ just be an absolute fucking tragedy.

He laughed, the sound sharp and unpleasant, too close to being a sob for comfort. Perhaps that was one thing he had to look forward to in all of this. In a moment he’d be off on the Yuhan, and Arthur didn’t seem the sort to be bothered by some soiled clothes.

He clamped his hand over his mouth to hold back a slightly hysterical giggle. Arthur, who had sat at the table in the garb of a stableman while Lucien suffered through the conversation with all the dignity of a drowned rat in expensive silk. He’d felt every bit like it, too, and he couldn’t say the feeling had been pleasant.

The thought did little to ease him, but the edge was leeching away from his panic, dulled to a painful throb in his head and replaced by a steady and insistent exhaustion. He rubbed his face, taking stock of his surroundings again — it was, for some reason, quite soothing to count the stalls, to smell the hay and touch the tack hanging on the wall. It was quiet, the air thick with the scent of horses than leather, and there was no one watching him or trying to make conversation; no one to impress, no one to fear, no one to manipulate. It was just him and the animals, and everyone knew that horses were the perfect creature. A few had poked their heads out — he counted two beautiful grays, a piebald with one blue eye, and a dun.

He paced between the stalls, rubbing every velvety nose he passed. It was a well-kept stable, and they all looked clean and fed and healthy. He found himself relaxing, the strain in his shoulders easing, so he tugged off his gloves, folding them into his pocket, and ran his hands over the soft fur of a mare that had nuzzled his cheek curiously. She was warm, her coat the color of molten gold, and her eyes were huge, brown and intelligent; and very nearly hidden under a long, white mane. He ran his fingers through it to brush out a few burrs, stifling a far more genuine laugh when she mouthed gently at his hands, clearly looking for treats.

He scratched under her chin. He didn’t have food for her, but it seemed he didn’t need any, because she leaned into his touch like a lazy house cat.

“I see you’ve made friends with Ella.”

Lucien winced. He put a tight lid on the instant urge to flee. “What are you doing in here?”

Arthur stalked towards him slowly his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, his attention on the mare. Lucien wasn’t sure if he wanted to face him. With Arthur suddenly here, everything felt too real, too immediate.

He looked… above all else, disheveled. His loose shirt was still open at the neck, the lines of it revealing far more of his tanned chest than was decent. It was — unsurprisingly, he supposed — toned and dusted with dusky curls. His hair stuck up in too many directions, and he’d clearly not shaved for at least a week, judging by the scruffiness of his jaw. He had tired circles under his eyes. He was tired, Lucien realized. Perhaps from many sleepless nights.

He shouldered his way into Lucien’s personal space, looking darker and surlier than a hurricane, something dangerous lurking in his gaze. He quirked one eyebrow as he gave Lucien a slow once over, his eyes dragging slowly down his body and back up again before he fixated on Lucien’s bare throat. There was something unsettling about that — Lucien felt uncomfortably like a gazelle being assessed by the blank, predatory eyes of a panther. Lucien forced his hands to his sides, although they twitched with the desire to lace his clothing back up to hide anything vulnerable or exposed.

There was a little smirk playing on his lips, but it fell promptly when he realized — to their mutual surprise — that Lucien was actually just a bit taller. Not enough to make Arthur look up at him, but enough that Arthur didn’t come anywhere close to forcing Lucien into craning his neck. Enough that Arthur was shocked, having clearly assumed he’d be the greater man in every way. They stood face to face, one of them admittedly not quite the wall of muscle the other was, but the imbalance did not feel egregious.

Arthur’s impressive eyebrows drew together slightly as soft color crept up to his face. “Am I not allowed to venture into my own stables?” He asked finally, his voice low and deceptively sweet. His smile was flat and unhappy.

“How did you know I was in here?” He didn’t think Gerome had said anything — he didn’t seem like the sort. But he was also loyal, and Lucien had no doubts that his allegiance lay with Arthur.

Arthur shrugged. He looked away, then walked towards a low table by the far wall away from the stalls. There were a few tools laid out on it — a farrier’s tools, mostly. Bits of tack. He picked up a strip of leather, examined it, then put it back down. “I didn’t. These are my stables.” He looked around, his eyebrow quirking. “I have to say, this isn’t where I expected to finally find you. I figured I’d sooner find you at Alissa’s, sipping tea and sharing embroidery patterns.”

Lucien flushed. “Resorting to petty insults now that your plan to be rid of me has officially not worked?”

Arthur’s smile slipped. He leaned back against a stall door, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t want this any more than I do. If you had just helped me —”

Lucien snorted. “You know nothing about me. As it happens, this is exactly what I want.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

Lucien tilted his head and gave him a sharp smile. “I know it’s hard to believe, but — and please, never tell a soul that I said this — but you’re actually not the worst looking man on this side of the Nior. And you come with quite a lot of land.” He wasn’t about to give Arthur the satisfaction of listing his real reasons — especially since he was so clearly bothered by all of this, as though being upset enough could do anything to change things. Lucien was viciously satisfied at being able to keep this one thing close to his chest. “There are worse matches to make. Our marriage will save both our kingdoms,” he said diplomatically.

“We are nothing alike. I’d be far better suited for your brother, Eador. Or even Lena.”

Lucien went cold. He stared at Arthur, thinking. He could — yes, he could picture him all too well with Eador, actually. They were alike. Both headstrong and stupidly stubborn, both restless as the Northern wind. The would have made quite the match — the pair of them strong, vibrant; more war heroes than princes, yet more suited for the roles they were given than Lucien would ever be. Eador would have loved Arthur — all his rough edges, the sharpness of his eyes, the faded scar that had slashed at an angle down one side of his face. It made him look dangerous. All the more enticing for a man like Eador, who courted danger passionately. They wouldn’t have stopped at Irragin; they would have taken the whole of the kingdom.

Well. Aside from one little problem. Lucien looked away. “Eador would have destroyed you, or you him,” he said absently, somehow unable to shake the image of Arthur and Eador side by side. It made him feel hot and cold all at once. “You’re better off with me.”

Arthur glared. “I can’t believe you.”

Lucien shrugged, turned back to Ella, and she nudged her nose into his open palm. “Believe what you will. I won’t help you dissolve this betrothal — and at any rate, it’s too late now. We don’t have to get along, but I think even _you_ are capable of temporarily suspending your homicidal urges.”

Suddenly Arthur was right behind him, so close he was all but leaning into Lucien, who twisted around to face him. They were almost touching, Arthur’s face an inch from his. He was smiling, but there was a hard, flinty edge to it, not at all friendly. “I can’t make any promises.”

They were standing too close, and Arthur was too _there_. He reached out to touch Lucien’s chin in a condescending little gesture, and Lucien smacked his hand away, grinding his teeth. He radiated heat and strength like the goddamn sun, and his touch burned, making Lucien bristle. He was furious — mostly with himself, for allowing this, for letting Arthur stand this close.

Lucien had dealt with men like this before. They existed to take up as much room as possible, they pushed and prodded and mocked their way to control. They got off on being large and imposing and on making people afraid — and Lucien wasn’t. Not of Arthur. He was a boy — a spoiled, cocky bully — and his particular brand of intimidation didn’t frighten him. He knew exactly how to play this game.

He slid one foot back to brace himself. Then he reached up to rest his hand very lightly on Arthur’s throat, almost smiling when the gentleness of the motion threw Arthur off. He blinked, his face the perfect picture of confusion and cautious curiosity. Then Lucien dug his thumb into the pressure point right under his ear. Arthur tried to jerk back, but Lucien had him in the kind of grip that was easier to stay still under than it was to escape. Holding him firmly under the jaw, he leaned in and gave Arthur a most dulcet smile.

“If you touch me without my permission again,” he said, “I’m going to make you regret the day you were born.”

Then he let go, and went almost slack with relief when Arthur simply took a healthy step back, rubbing his neck and shooting him a furious stare. He waited for the snarl, for a fist flying at his face. For a second he almost braced himself when Arthur’s hand twitched, and he inched closer to the table, wondering if he should go for the whip or the hoof nippers for defense.

But Arthur didn’t hit him. After a moment of thick tension, he looked away. His shoulders sagged. “I don’t understand you,” he said, but there was no heat in it anymore.

“Good thing you don’t have to.”

Arthur sighed and turned away. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shooting Lucien a weary look over his shoulder. “I suppose not. I’m going to go get ready, and I’d advise you to do the same.”

Lucien nodded tightly, annoyed. He didn’t need to be told, but he was grateful Arthur was leaving. He needed a moment to himself. To gather his thoughts.

“Oh, one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“Ella is my horse. If you wish to rider her for the Yuhan, make sure you bribe her with carrots first. She acts sweet, but she’s an evil harpy.”

Then he left, leaving Lucien to stew alone, feeling bereft and a little dumbfounded, with Ella chewing earnestly at the end of his braid.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, that was a little of Lucien's perspective. We'll see where this is going soon. I hope I'm not moving too slowly, but then I tend to enjoy a slow burn sometimes. No worries though, if you're here for the smut it's likely coming around chapter 3 or 4 at the latest. 
> 
> Once again, no beta and like... speedy proofreading. I'm so sorry if you catch errors or formatting issues, I'll do my best to come back and edit more later, I just really need to publish this because it motivates me. All your comments and kudos mean the world to me. :) Thanks for reading!


	3. The Yuhan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delays again! Life was kinda insane. I was applying for school, working longer hours, and everything was just kinda... overwhelming. Sorry, guys. But! This chapter is literally longer than the first two put together, so settle in, grab a drink, and enjoy.

Lucien did not choose to ride Arthur’s horse for the Yuhan. He was still reeling from the very fact that Arthur had _offered_ , as if it was an actual option, as if they hadn’t been on the verge of a fight five seconds beforehand. It was strange behavior to say the least, and he knew the other shoe would drop eventually, that Arthur would find a way to make him pay for grabbing and threatening him. The stress of not knowing the how or the when was choking him, and he cursed himself for feeling it in the first place. The bay gelding he was saddling up twitched nervously under his hands, picking up on his tension. He rubbed his shoulder gently, trying to reassure, although whether it was his horse or himself he did not know.

They were about to set out. The Yuhan began with a small ceremonial sendoff and people were already gathering in the courtyard. Lucien was about to boil over. He had to fight to keep his hands from tugging at his collar, his sleeves, the edge of the riding jacket he’d changed into. He wished his father wasn’t here. Somehow, all this would be easier if he was doing it alone. Instead, he was forced to put on a cool, pleasant smile as his gaze bore into him in critical assessment. He had to stand there at Arthur’s side as the two monarchs conversed with an ease and familiarity that was almost unsettling, and as Arthur’s extended family arrived to say goodbye and to meet the Prince’s future husband. There were too many eyes on him, all contemplative and calculating, and Lucien thought it would be a miracle if he survived this. It shouldn’t be this hard to breathe. He shouldn’t be sweating this much. Something was wrong; he was ill, poisoned perhaps, and although he could say nothing to indicate how he felt, he was sure _someone_ would notice, someone would point at him and say, “Sire, you don’t look so good. Perhaps we should postpone this”. But no one did.

He caught Arthur’s eyes for a brief moment, noted the displeased twist of his mouth. He was standing next to someone — a man that looked strikingly like he could be Arthur’s sibling, even a twin — and they were deep in conversation, but cut off when they spotted Lucien.

“Uncle Gabriel,” Arthur said dryly. “Have you met my darling betrothed?”

Gabriel turned to face Lucien. His hair was dark, like Arthur’s, but his eyes were a startling, bright shade of green. He smiled easily, took Lucien’s hand, and instead of shaking it bowed his head to press his lips to the back of his glove. There was a warm twinkle in his gaze. “It is a pleasure, dear Prince. Arthur is the luckiest of men,” he said as he straightened up, mischief and good humor evident on his face.

Lucien flushed as Arthur coughed quietly. He pulled his hand out of Gabriel’s grip. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being the butt of some joke between the two of them. “The pleasure is mine,” he muttered automatically.

Gabriel slung his arm around Lucien’s shoulders, and he stiffened immediately at the crushing force of his grip. He was tall, and smelled like rich, floral perfume. “Oh come now,” he said into Lucien’s ear. He was so close Lucien could feel the puff of his breath in his hair. “We are to be family. We must get to know each other better as soon as you arrive at Irragin.”

Perhaps it was Lucien’s imagination, but there seemed to be something low and suggestive in his voice. He swallowed tightly. He was sure there was an appropriate response, but his brain was not supplying it. He looked up at Arthur — in _shock,_ and definitely _not_ a silent plea for help — and was surprised at the somewhat apprehensive look on his face.

“Let him go, Gabriel. You’ll suffocate the poor man. Lucien, you must forgive my lecherous uncle. He’s…” Arthur made a face, “A pervert.”

Not his imagination then. Gabriel smacked Arthur on the arm with a guffaw. But to Lucien’s immense relief, he stepped away, looking between the two of them, a smile tugging at his lips. Lucien wouldn’t have called him lecherous. He was… touchy, and just as pushy as Arthur, but he didn’t _leer_. His teasing, odd as it was, seemed entirely good-natured. “Are you sure you want him all to yourself, Arthur? Because —”

“Gabriel,” Arthur said his easy smile falling into something with a harder edge, “Enough.”

Gabriel sighed, shrugged lightly. “Have it your way, Arthur.” He looked back at Lucien and winked. “When you get bored of him, you’ll know where to find me.” He walked away with a light spring in his step, off to talk to Thero, who was still speaking with Lucien’s father.

Lucien thought he might vomit. He pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, trying to will the headache away. His stomach was a tight knot. He couldn’t do this. He _had_ to do it, for his own sake he had to, but he just couldn’t. He was going to make a fool of himself and get sick here and now — or worse, he was going to bolt like every muscle in his body was telling him to.

“Lucien?”

He looked up at the question in Arthur’s voice.

“Are you about to faint? You’re looking a little peaky,” he said lightly.

Lucien glared. He held a special hate in his heart for this particular brand of Arthur’s mockery. The way he looked at him and spoke to him like Lucien was some frail maiden. “I’m perfectly fine,” he said, sounding completely convincing.

Arthur raised one eyebrow. “Can you ride? And keep up, I mean,” he clarified when Lucien shot him an outraged look.

“Better than you, I’m sure,” Lucien said tightly. “If you find yourself being left behind, don’t hesitate to ask me to slow down. I would hate to lose you before I can get my hands on the Irragin lands.”

Arthur’s expression darkened. “The purpose of the Yuhan,” he ground out, “is to _survive_ the journey ahead. Not perish in the woods after having ridden your horse into the ground. If you—”

But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Suddenly Valegar and Thero were both approaching them, faces calm and serious, and their horses were being led forward, all saddled and packed up for the journey. Lucien was not surprised that the gathering was small, was glad of it really, but somehow that made it feel more real. If things had been — contrived, ceremonial, crowded, it may have been easier to escape his own head and slip into his formal skin. But like this, with only his own father and Gabriel and Thero and — to his shock — Gerome, milling around them, fussing, it was impossible to pretend. Impossible not to feel the weight of it — not just the betrothal, the impending marriage, but the Yuhan itself, with all that it meant. No matter what happened now, or later, this would change him. Him and Arthur would be bonded, uniquely and eternally, marriage or no marriage.

His father faced him, his face as cool and impassive as it always was. Perhaps there was a glitter of emotion in his eyes, but if so, Lucien couldn’t name it. He was drawn into a solid embrace that lasted what felt like half a second, and his father touched his face lightly before drawing back, tipping up his chin to look at him. He stared for a moment, brow furrowing, but the expression smoothed quickly, and he only said, “Be well and safe on your journey.”

Thero touched his shoulder. He was like Arthur — larger than life, strong, a little wild looking. His hand felt heavy. “May the gods guide you on your journey.”

Gerome approached him too. He was easier to read. There was kindness and sympathy etched deep into the lines of his face, even as he smiled encouragingly, embracing them both in turn. No one seemed surprised by this. When he hugged Lucien, he whispered, “Don’t worry, lad,” into his ear, and although it didn’t exactly work, it made something squeeze in Lucien’s chest.

The sun was up. The road before them long, just barely illuminated, the gray of morning washing away. The sky was a perfect, cloudless violet-blue. Lucien mounted his horse and looked back down at the sendoff party, bowing his head in a final farewell. They would turn back now, go inside the palace and pretend they hadn’t seen them leave, as if Arthur and him were lovers sneaking off into a lovely sunrise together. It was, he supposed, a silly farce in the face of what this was to them, but he felt a small amount of warmth at the thought anyway. Their marriage wasn’t a spontaneous love match, it wasn’t even one made for Lucien’s benefit, but he was still comforted by the thought of his ancestors going on this same journey — with lovers, or strangers, it did not matter — with singular purpose, with a certain degree of solemn contemplation for the life ahead of them.

He took a deep breath. Up here he felt… better. He felt confident, competent — he was a good rider, a competent hunter. He had a longbow and a rapier at his side, both of which he knew exactly how to utilize to his advantage. He knew how to sleep on the ground, how to make fire, how to survive the Wildlands and come out feeling strong and sure. Arthur would leech that feeling from him sooner or later with his glowers and incessant grumbling, he was certain, but for now, he could almost convince himself he felt — ready.

They set off. The sound of hoofbeats was a rhythm old and familiar and sweeter than music to Lucien’s ears. The wind was light and brought with it the fragrance of wildflowers. It wasn’t enough to chase away the dark, lurking pain in his chest or the tension still in him, but it was… something.

He closed his eyes, and let his mind drift. His relief felt sharp in his chest. He was going to be just fine.

 

*

 

He was, to his delight, a better rider than Arthur. He was lighter, more flexible, and although Arthur’s strength was nothing to sneeze at, horses had always responded well to Lucien’s light touch. His mother had called it an affinity, his father a distraction, but whatever it was, it was useful now. Ella was a good horse; fast on her feet, full of energy and smooth, almost weightless movement. Arthur was far from miserable in the saddle, but with the added weight of the sword and his own larger frame, he tired quicker than Lucien. On the first day, by the time the sun was on its way back down towards the horizon, he had ridden ahead and still felt relatively fresh by the time Arthur decided to call it a day.

They had ridden in silence through the fields of barley and lavender on the outskirts of the castle. And now they made a small fire in that same silence, unrolling their blankets and tethering the horses for the night. They were further out in the plains, but on the horizon where the light had dissolved into a startling shade of orange he could already see mountains, and the dark, foreboding outline of the woods. Too far to reach this night, but they certainly would by the end of the next day. The Yuhan, such was its design, had taken them immediately out of the way of any towns or settlements. The few farmhouses they had passed so far had stood far from the road, small and shuttered in the distance, more scenery than signs of life. They were already somehow isolated, even this close to civilization still.

This wasn’t what bothered him. What _did_ bother him was the fact that Arthur wouldn’t stop _staring_.

He’d expected to be entirely ignored, given the way their first two meetings had gone, but Arthur was having none of it. It had started almost immediately after they’d set out. Arthur had caught up to him quickly despite the brisk pace he’d set, and although he said nothing, he’d pinned his gaze to Lucien, his expression impassive. Lucien felt his eyes on him all day, and felt them now, too, even as he turned to stoke the fire, feeding the snapping, crackling flames with a few parched branches he’d found. The smoke smelled almost earthy, and settled into his skin and hair and clothes.

He looked up at Arthur, losing his patience. “What is it?” he snapped. “What do you want?”

Arthur blinked at him slowly. He’d stretched out on top of his blanket, and was using a pack as a pillow. Lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, he was the picture of ease, even with this sword lying within an arm’s reach. “You’re very… you’re a good rider.”

Lucien snorted delicately. “I know. I’d feel pleased at having surprised you, but you think so little of me it’s hardly a victory now, is it?” He could feel the bitterness lacing his voice. “Will you act just as astonished when I tell you I’m also capable of dressing myself?” he asked with false shyness.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Absolutely, considering those monstrosities you wear. Honestly, Lucien, why so many goddamn _laces_?”

Lucien shook his head, went back to poking the fire with a stick. The tip of it glowed orange when he took it out from between the smoldering logs, and he stared at the little point of light, mesmerized. “You’d prance about the palace naked, if you had your way. Not everyone is as uncivilized.” He shot Arthur a pointed look. His shirt was open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up past the elbows, once again revealing far too much of his sun bronzed skin. He had a fair amount of hair, on his arms and on his chest, and Lucien could see faint scars on his torso, pale and long faded. They were the marks of a warrior, undoubtedly earned in some glorious battle. Lucien swallowed tightly. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sight, but it still made his face heat if he stared too long. It didn’t help that he couldn’t keep himself from thinking about what was meant to happen between them once they were married. It filled him with equal parts terror and a perverse sort of curiosity that made his gaze wander more than he meant to allow it.

Arthur grinned at him. “Are you— are you _scandalized_? Does this bother you?” To make his point, he popped open one more button of his shirt. He placed his fingertips against his stomach, and Lucien tore his gaze sharply away.

The flush just under his skin deepened. “Of course not,” he snapped. “I just — I just think it’s — indecent.”

Arthur laughed, the sound low and muffled. “This explains so much.”

Lucien frowned. “Like what, exactly?”

He shook his head, the smile still on his face. In this light, Lucien couldn’t quite read it. Was it genuine amusement, or derision that colored his features? “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

They ate supper — a mix of dried meat and bread and a bit of fruit, since they could have it so fresh from the castle — and said nothing else, but Lucien was still all too aware of Arthur’s eyes sliding back to him, watchful and calculating. He refused to squirm under the perusal, and simply lay back and closed his eyes, willing for sleep to take him quickly.

It did not. He lay awake for far too long, listening to Arthur’s steady breathing, sighing when it turned into a soft snore. He rolled to his back to look up at the winking canopy of stars above. He was beginning to feel… apprehensive, probably. A part of him relaxing as he realized Arthur didn’t seem to be holding a grudge, yet another irate and tense at knowing so little about his betrothed, and less yet about what the future held for them. Another part suddenly wistful — the first day of the Yuhan had drawn to a close, and now it was well and truly just the two of them together. In another lifetime, perhaps Lucien would be here with someone he loved and cherished, but for now he was surprised to find he was content with that person being Arthur instead. He would not have been Lucien’s first choice of husband, but he also didn’t seem unbearably cruel or violent. Just vexing. Occasionally childish.

Nonetheless, it was difficult to relax enough to drift off. It would be, Lucien thought, all too convenient for Arthur to get rid of him out here in the Wildlands, and say that an unfortunate accident had befallen his betrothed. Perhaps no one would believe him — or would they? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had died or gone missing during the Yuhan. It was a difficult thought to shake, and one that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable, entirely at Arthur’s mercy. He wasn’t defenseless — he’d tucked a dagger under the saddle bags he was using as a pillow, and he knew how to use it — but Arthur was a seasoned fighter. And there were ways of hurting someone without raising a fuss, and sometimes without using a weapon at all. And ways, he mused, that didn’t involve any violence at all.

He shut his eyes again, curling up under his blanket, shivering at the sudden chill on his skin. Arthur wouldn’t harm him. At least not now. He didn’t seem stupid enough, and more than that, he didn’t _really_ seem like the type. But dark, restless thoughts still chased Lucien down into oblivion.

 

He woke with a start what felt like seconds later, on his stomach and with his face pressed into the rough blanket, vaguely aware of someone _touching_ him, a heavy hand on his shoulder. He rolled sharply, kicked out at his assailant, his hand going automatically to his knife; the sharp _oomph_ of pain made him grin in dark satisfaction right before he realized where he was. And, more to the point, whom he was with. He scrambled back, his heart still in his throat, face burning with a mixture of lingering fear and embarrassment, his clothing twisted and uncomfortably askew.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Arthur snarled, glaring at Lucien from all fours, curling his arm around his middle. His eyes flicked to the dagger in his hand, and he shot Lucien an outraged look. “What the _hell_ , Lucien?”

 Lucien’s knee twinged from being slammed into what he assumed was Arthur’s ribs. He lowered the knife, but did not relax. “Didn’t I warn you about touching me?” he hissed, because it was less humiliating than an apology.

“I was waking you up, you idiot. It’s not my fault you sleep like the dead,” he snapped, eyes narrowing in annoyance. He got up, grunted, rubbing his hand over his ribs with a wince and another glare in Lucien’s direction. Then he turned to tend to the horses, face set in a pissed-off sneer.

Lucien exhaled sharply, guilt trickling in. He’d come awfully close to striking out with the knife. He wanted — well. He wasn’t going to apologize. But he wished he hadn’t kicked his betrothed in lieu of a good morning. They were supposed to be bonding, learning how to be around each other, making nice. Starting some kind of relationship — one with a bond of mutual respect and consideration, if nothing more. At the barest minimum, one in which there was no cruelty or violence between them. It was doubly important specifically _because_ they were strangers.

He got up slowly, stiffly. He hadn’t slept well. The sky was still gray, too early for real sunlight, and there was a damp chill in the air. He looked over at where Arthur was saddling Ella, and noted that his own gelding was all ready to go. Which meant Arthur had taken care of that before Lucien had woken up. Damn him.

Lucien was suddenly furious. Helpless, impotent rage curled deep down in his gut. His back felt so tense he was almost shaking, even as he packed up the last of their camp, even as he thought of how satisfying it would be to just _hit_ something, anything, even if it shattered his hand into splinters of bone.  Instead, he growled, kicked the ashes of their fire to smother the last of the faintly glowing embers, and got on his horse. They had a long day ahead.

 

He rode hard, and Arthur either couldn’t or wouldn’t keep up, which was just fine. He was vaguely aware that he should slow down, eat, have a drink, but aside from making sure his horse was all right, Lucien had no interest in taking it easy. He welcomed the burn in his muscles and the hard sound of hoof beats on dry grass, and even the exhaustion from the poor night he’d had. It was seeping down into his bones, making him feel heavier and less coordinated than his horse deserved, but in a way it was almost pleasant. He figured that if he kept himself on the verge of passing out all day, he’d actually fall asleep properly when the time came. And if that didn’t work, at least there was the comfort of knowing that the faster they went, the sooner this would end.

He kept his eyes on the road. The sky was clear but the wind picked up, harsh and stinging, the sound of it a low, building howl. Far away, the very woods swayed and rustled under its force. He was looking forward to settling into a trek under the deep green, fragrant canopy. He’d always loved the forest, even as a boy. It felt quiet and safe, the earth damp and soft under his feet, the trees offering an infinity of hiding spots and places to play. He no longer climbed like a monkey along mossy tree branches, but the memories were good.

He got a little lost in them, and didn’t hear Arthur come up until they were riding almost side by side again. He realized he’d slowed, too tired to stick to the pace he’d set, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing.

“I’m sorry I startled you this morning. You did warn me.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed to Arthur. He couldn’t hide his surprise. Arthur was watching him, his face still dark and serious, expression somewhat guarded, but he looked — sincere. Lucien wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but an apology was just about the last thing on the list.

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Well,” he said. “As long as you don’t do it again, I suppose it’s fine.” He’d meant for it to come out haughty, but his voice sounded too quiet for it.

Arthur sighed. They fell into an easier step side by side, the horses apparently content to slow down and stick together. He couldn’t help it — he stared at Arthur, trying to figure out what his game was. But he didn’t seem to _want_ anything. He wasn’t looking at Lucien, his pose was loose and relaxed in the saddle, his mouth not-quite smiling, but — well — not _not_ smiling, either. He looked a little tired still, a bit scruffy and tussled from a night in the grass, but not unhappy, and not calculating. It boggled the mind.

“You didn’t eat anything,” Arthur said almost an hour on.

“I’m all right. I’ll eat — later.”

“You should eat now. Keep your strength up.”

Lucien turned to glare at him, incredulous. “What are you, my mother?” It rankled, that Arthur still treated him like this. Like he was some helpless thing to watch over, lest it trip over its feet in ineptitude.

Arthur made a face, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m a soldier, not a nanny. All I know is, there’s a journey ahead of us both, and I’d rather you didn’t collapse on me three days in.”

“I’m not hungry,” Lucien said, his patience paper thin. “If I feel hungry, I will eat. If I feel thirsty, I’ll stop and drink. I know it seems _complicated_ and all, but I assure you —”

Arthur waved him off. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

Lucien exhaled slowly. As if on cue, his stomach twisted a little, the rumble thankfully too low to hear. Damn it, he was _not_ going to eat, at least not now. He had a point to make, and no one ever died from skipping breakfast.

He thought they might return to the silence, that Arthur was done, but it was only a short time later that he spoke up again.

“What’s it like? Your homeland?”

He straightened up, the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably, his feet cramping a little in the stirrups. He adjusted his seat. “You’re awfully chatty today,” he observed.

“I just want to learn things. About you.” He looked at Lucien, and his expression was almost hesitant. “No harm in that, right?”

Lucien shrugged, discomfited, unsure of how to respond. “My home is like any other. The palace was large, but I spent most of my time out in the gardens anyway, or in the library. It’s in the lowlands, and it’s always cold and often windy. But you must know, you’ve been there before.”

Yes,” Arthur admitted. “More than once, though usually in passing. I remember it being harsh, and sort of beautiful. The grass was a million different colors.”

Lucien blinked. “Yes. The grasslands of Mordrego are unique. In the fall, especially.”

Arthur grunted noncommittally. A moment later, he asked, “Why didn’t any of your siblings come to see you off yesterday?”

Lucien started, his horse shying slightly at his sudden tension. It took him a second to recover, and he was scrambling for an answer, Arthur’s too-piercing stare once again digging into him like so many fishhooks.

“Why would they?” he choked out finally, astonished that Arthur would honestly ask such a question.

“I was under the impression that the Yuhan was… significant, and required the presence of family.”

Lucien laughed. It was a hard, bitter sound. “Yes, generally. But this is different. They didn’t see the necessity in making such a long journey for… well, this.” He didn’t like the speculative little frown on Arthur’s face. If he thought about this too hard, he might begin to feel things like pity, and gods knew that was the last thing Lucien wanted.

“It’s a shame,” Arthur said finally. “I would have liked to meet them.”

Lucien stiffened again. “Oh, I’m sure,” he said quietly. “Eador especially, I imagine. And no doubt you will.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a tight line. “And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’m sure Eador will be delighted to meet you as well. Would you like me to introduce you two? Perhaps give you my blessing?” The words came out a hiss, low and angry.

Arthur looked stunned. “Lucien,” he said slowly. There were beginnings of frustration lurking behind the seemingly impassive facade. “Don’t be stupid. I’m just making conversation. I have no desire to —”

“To what?” Lucien snapped, a little too sharply.

“To—” Arthur lowered his voice, “To seek… any untoward companionship outside of—” he swallowed visibly, “our marriage bed.”

Lucien cocked one eyebrow. Heat was still simmering under his skin, the raw edge of his anger too close to the surface. “Did I say anything about a bed?”

Arthur’s glare turned thunderous. “You know damn well what you were implying. I just mean — that’s not— I would never be unfaithful to you. I know this is hardly an ideal situation for either of us, but my people believe that the sacred bond  between —”

“Save it,” Lucien said, suddenly feeling a bit ill. “I think I’d rather go back to companionable silence, if you don’t mind.”

It was Arthur’s turn to look skeptical. “Companionable,” he said, turning the word over in his mouth like it was unfamiliar. Then, his gaze sharpened. “Lucien. Are you — are you jealous?”

Lucien gave him a disgusted look. This was not a question he was going to dignify with a response.

“Because if you were,” Arthur said slowly, “You should know that to me… I cannot. I will not stray from our marriage, despite the pretenses. It means something to me. But —” he seemed to turn a little green. “I’ll understand if you don’t… feel the same. Or extend me the same courtesy.”

Lucien’s smile felt twisted. “The courtesy of not fucking other people, you mean.” He looked over at Arthur, who was staring at him like he’d just grown a second head. “I can hardly expect fidelity from you, Arthur. I know you’re not in this willingly. If you want to —” he couldn’t quite fight down the wince — “ _pursue_ Eador, I’m not going to stop you.”

Arthur looked away, the set of his jaw sullen. “I told you, that’s not going to happen. I was simply curious.” There was another beat of silence, during which Lucien had almost forgotten what they were talking about in the first place. “Would you? Want to —  take lovers, I mean?”

 Lucien refused to answer. The knot of his feelings on the matter was too complicated to untangle at the moment anyway. He said nothing else, but there was still bitter-tasting laughter on his lips.

 

The woods were welcoming as they rode in, and although the horses were no longer safe to canter through the trees, Lucien was pleased. The air smelled mossy and wet, but the undergrowth under their feet was not overly soggy — just damp and fresh, as it should be. They spoke little, and although things were still strained between them, Arthur no longer pressed for information. He did, at one point, wordlessly pass Lucien the water skin along with some dried meat, but by then Lucien was properly hungry and took it without much grumbling. It would take more than that to ruin his suddenly much lighter mood — he was at home in the forest. The whispering of the trees a familiar, rustling song.

 They made their way through green ferns and gnarled roots poking out from the dirt, careful not to injure the horses, sometimes dismounting when the ground became too uneven or littered with fallen logs so they could better find a safe path through them. It made for very slow going, and by the time the sun began its descent they were both more than ready to turn in for the night. They stopped to rest and made another fire to warm themselves by, and this time took turns keeping watch. Lucien took first, and by the time he shook Arthur awake, he was more than ready to drop into the blankets. Too tired to unroll his own, he pressed his face down into Arthur’s as he drifted off, breathing deeply the unfamiliar scent.

 

The next morning, Arthur woke him by strategically flicking a few pebbles at his face. Lucien grunted unhappily and pulled the blanket over his head. “Jus’ five more minutes,” he slurred.

A pebble landed on the cloth on his forehead with a soft thump. “Come on, Lucien, it’s getting late. I thought I might hunt today. Can I use your bow?”

Lucien inhaled deeply, eyes drifting shut again. It was dark under here, warm, and the smell was comforting. It smelled like sleep. “You hunt,” he muttered. “I’ll be right ‘ere.”

The blanket was yanked from him without ceremony, and Lucien looked up sullenly, feeling rather cold and bereft. Arthur was smiling — it was a small, impish little expression, as if there was something amusing about Lucien being so tired he wanted to die. He shot Arthur a scathing glare, which only served to make the smile wider. His eyes crinkled pleasantly at the corners.

“I’m delighted,” Lucien hissed, “That you find my misery so hilarious.”

And Arthur laughed quietly, ducking his chin, and in the warm morning light the look on his face made Lucien stop breathing for a moment. Unfettered joy was not an expression he was used to seeing at all, and on Arthur — well. It transformed him. He looked —

He cut off the thought abruptly, getting to his feet, his face heating, though not in anger this time. He wasn’t sure what it was precisely that had put Arthur in his mood, and although he would not question it, something inside him squeezed plaintively. He couldn’t forget. Arthur saw him as weak, fragile, and the source of his own troubles to boot. Arthur was not a friend. The curl of warmth he’d felt at that smile was a traitorous thing, entirely inappropriate under the circumstances, and it would bring him nothing but unhappiness.

He helped Arthur pack up, his musings making a frown settle onto his face, and kicked himself for it when his mood made Arthur’s smile slip. He opened his mouth to say something, but then Arthur winced as he slung the saddle onto Ella’s back, and suddenly his words were dead on his lips, forgotten.

“What’s wrong?”

Arthur flinched. “It’s nothing.” He gave a slow, measured exhale, watching warily as Lucien approached him, leaning back against his horse and realizing there was no avenue of escape.

It wasn’t nothing. He was holding himself stiffly, favoring his side. Lucien grabbed the edge of his shirt before he could retreat, and yanked it up before he could convince himself it was a bad idea.

He froze, nausea swirling through him, cold dread settling somewhere deep in his gut. The bruise spanning Arthur’s ribs — well, wasn’t the worst he’d seen, but it wasn’t pretty. Dark and mottled and still an angry, reddish-purple color, and larger than it had any right to be.

“Lucien,” Arthur said quietly. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. It was as far from fucking fine as it got. Lucien gritted his teeth. He couldn’t believe he’d done that. Marked Arthur like _that_ , kicked him hard enough to leave this kind of evidence on his skin and probably deeper tissue. He refused to think bone. If he’d cracked Arthur’s ribs…

He fought down a swell of panic. “Don’t move,” he said curtly. He went to his saddlebags, retrieved a jar of salve he kept there for soothing the horses’ joints. There was more than enough, and though it wasn’t ideal, it would have to do. He twisted it open, spread the oily, herbal substance between his hands to warm it, and reached out to smooth it over Arthur’s skin.

“Relax, Lucien. I’m fine.” Except he clearly wasn’t, because he sounded breathless and tense, and hissed sharply when Lucien’s fingers pressed a little harder.

Lucien kept his head bowed, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he worked the paste in, his jaw set and his breathing held steady by sheer force of will. It would take a moment to warm properly, so he braced one hand on Arthur’s hip to keep him still as he slowly rubbed circles into the abused flesh under his fingers, trying not to cause any additional pain. He didn’t think anything was broken, but he couldn’t be sure. Fuck. Fuck. He was a proper bastard.

He lingered longer than he meant to. Arthur’s skin was shockingly smooth, the muscle under it somehow soft and firm all at once. He’d worked most of the salve in — it was warm now and a bit slick, and coated most of his side — but he couldn’t quite force himself to lean away just yet.

Arthur caught his wrist, and he stilled, knowing he’d overstepped a boundary, suddenly horribly aware of how close they were standing, and even more aware of the fact that he was still _touching_ Arthur rather brazenly under his shirt, his hands resting on that ridiculously warm skin, one low on his hip and the other lightly covering the bruise he’d left. He swallowed, tried to draw back, but Arthur held fast.

“It’s going to feel a bit cold, then a bit hot, and then a bit numb. It should help the pain. And fac— facilitate healing.” His voice staggered, dry and rough.

“Look at me,” Arthur said.

Lucien looked up. His breath caught at Arthur’s expression. There was a slight flush coloring his cheeks, and his eyes were impossibly dark, something intense swirling in their depths, something as confused as it was insistent. He was still holding on to Lucien, keeping him from taking that crucial step back. Lucien could feel his shallow, tightly controlled breathing in the tiny space between them. Felt it hitch when his hand moved of its own volition, skimming up just a little to the point where it became almost a caress. An apology.

Arthur leaned in half a fraction.

Lucien stepped back abruptly, desperate for distance, still shaking, his nerves scattered. Arthur released him, but he could feel the ghost of his grip on his wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said roughly. His hands smelled minty; the same scent now lingering on Arthur.

Arthur took a step towards him, his hands coming up to Lucien’s arms, his grip light enough to slip from easily. “Lucien—”

“It’s late,” Lucien said quickly, wiping his hands on his jacket, far beyond caring about the state of his clothes. “We have to go.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment.

 

*

 

The next days passed peacefully; an unspoken, uneasy truce formed between them. They didn’t speak much, but the silence quickly shifted from awkward to familiar, past injuries and insults fading deliberately from mention or memory.

About a week on, when they grew bored of their dry food supply, Arthur managed to hunt down a few rabbits for dinner with Lucien’s bow. Lucien spotted a grove of ripe, pink raspberries only a short while later, then cleaned the animals and roasted them over an open fire while Arthur waded into the field of brambles and ferns to pick the fruit. After they ate, they took turns keeping watch while the other slept. Lucien once again offered the herbal salve to Arthur, but his response was by now predictable — an eyeroll, occasionally coupled with a snort and adamant refusal to waste any more supplies.

Occasionally they saw deer, or heard the rustle of movement between the trees, but it was never more than a bird or a squirrel flitting quickly from branch to branch, too quick to see. Lucien found himself settling. He still slept poorly most nights, and it made him tired and irritable in the mornings, but Arthur seemed to be immune to his moody growling. He had taken to waking him either with pebbles, when he was feeling generous, or by yanking Lucien’s blankets off when he dallied too long. And it was _annoying_ , yes, but it was hard to stay angry when Arthur himself acted like the very definition of stoic patience. Having resigned himself to his fate, he was evidently not the kind of person to wallow in bitterness.  Lucien caught him glaring a lot less often, and it made something light and promising take up residence in his chest.

He had to admit that Arthur had exceeded Lucien’s expectations. He was quick-witted, not entirely unkind, and although he was even rougher around the edges now than the first time they had met, Lucien found that he didn’t care. The bristly stubble on his face suited him, as did the casually open neck of his shirt and the rolled up sleeves. His abrasiveness was generally good-natured; he was clumsy with words at times, and he still stared at Lucien too hard and too often with no sense of propriety. He snorted derisively at the too-many layers Lucien was clad in, arched his eyebrows in insulting surprise when Lucien proved himself competent at hunting or tracking, but there was no heat or mockery left in his eyes, or any of the comments he made.

Lucien chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to pick apart his feelings, his chest a swirl of relief and irritation at not finding Arthur entirely unattractive. His eyes were a lovely shade of very dark brown, and his hair another shade darker, falling in loose, unruly waves around his face. He had scars, and although Lucien had grumbled earlier about them being just to Eador’s taste, he found that he quite liked them as well. Without them, he mused, Arthur may have looked dangerously like a work of art.  He had the expressive eyebrows for it, the proud nose, the sensual mouth.

Arthur caught him staring once as they were walking side by side, letting the horses catch a break from their weight. His lips quirked in a small smile. “Are you still in there?”

Lucien blinked rapidly and forced his gaze away. He looked to the trees, the canopy bright and almost yellow above them, backlit by the midday sun. “Of course. Where else would I be?”

“Miles away, apparently. Your eyes were glazing over.”

Lucien was about to respond with a peevish ‘no they weren’t’, only he realized that Arthur was probably right. He sniffed delicately. “It’s called _thinking_. You should try it sometime.”

For a moment, he thought that perhaps he’d made that sound a little too biting, but after a pregnant pause Arthur snorted, rolling his eyes, fighting back a stubborn smile.

“Thinking,” Arthur said, his tone of voice disgusted. “Never got me anywhere. Don’t see what all the fuss is about, frankly.”

Lucien bit his lip, stepping over a fallen log. They were walking through a narrow, dried up gully, and the terrain was littered with debris. Leaves crunched and shifted under his feet. “Well, your brute force approach doesn’t seem to be much help either, hm? You’re still stuck with me.”

Arthur shook his head sagely. “Brute force always comes through. I’m sure it’ll come in handy eventually.” The sideways glance he shot at Lucien seemed heavy with meaning. “Perhaps I should tie you up and throw you over the back of my horse. You’d be well out of my way then. We’d move so much faster.”

Lucien pursed his lips. “That would not go well for you,” he said finally, smiling crookedly despite himself. He held up his hand an wiggled his fingers. “Pressure points, remember?”

“I can still feel that in my jaw, you bastard.”

Lucien hmphed. “If anyone’s getting hogtied, it’s you. I’m the better rider.”

Arthur snorted. He stopped and put out a hand to steady himself against a sapling, taking a breath and a swig of water from the canteen at his hip. Lucien watched a little too closely when a stray drop escaped and rolled down his neck, pooling in the little dip over his collar bone. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. He put the water away, crossed his arms and leaned back against the tree. “Please. Wishful thinking at its finest. But. If you think you can beat me, why don’t we race?” There was a spark in his eyes, and Lucien’s pulse picked up at the challenge in his voice.

“Once we’re out of these woods, I’m going to take you up on that. I’m going to win, and then I’m going to rub your face in your miserable defeat.” He leaned in to glare at Arthur through narrowed eyes, poking his chest with one finger and bringing his face close. “For the next decade, Arthur. You shall never hear the end of it.”

Arthur stilled abruptly, his gaze dropping to Lucien’s mouth. His slow smile was dangerous mix of honey and fire. “And what does the winner of our little race get, I wonder?”

Lucien’s throat went dry. He was vaguely aware that he should step back, but his body was not obeying him. Arthur, as ever, radiated warmth. He cleared his throat. “Bragging rights for life?”

Arthur laughed. “I think not. Those are a given. I had something a little more exciting in mind.” And it was back — that speculative look in his eyes. He leaned in to whisper into Lucien’s ear, voice dropping conspiratorially. He was suddenly so close that the coarse hair on his jaw brushed against Lucien’s cheek.  “We should make a game of it.”

Lucien thought he might suffer a stroke like this, because for some reason the breath of Arthur’s words on his skin did not even come close to making him recoil. Never in his life did he think that the smell of sweat and horses on someone’s skin could be this pleasant. His breathing was suddenly shaky, his chest too tight again, and he’d forgotten what they were talking about. He felt dangerously close to doing something hopelessly stupid.

But Ella saved him, because she abruptly and loudly, head flying up and ears pricking. Arthur seemed to realize what he was doing and reared back, blinking. Lucien stepped away, feeling flushed and cold all at once, his pulse still thrumming too hard.

He swallowed around the dryness in his throat. “Arthur—”

“Shh—”

Arthur held up his hand, suddenly tense, and Lucien sobered instantly. The horses pawed at the ground, his gelding snorting quietly and tossing his head, tail flicking, ears restless.

A predator?

He reached for his longbow where it was strapped to his saddle and nocked an arrow. The woods, he realized, were all at once far too quiet. The stillness was unnatural. He wanted to kick himself for only noticing now, because he’d been too focused on _Arthur_ , apparently. Too distracted to realize that the silence meant danger. The trees were thick around them, and worse, they had taken the path along a parched out riverbed to ease the horses’ way. It wasn’t impossible to climb the steep banks, but it wasn’t ideal — not if there was a wolf or a bear stalking them.

He did curse under his breath when Arthur drew his sword silently, his eyes watchful, flicking from tree to tree. A sharp chill ran down his spine at the look on his face — a mirror of Lucien’s, equal parts anxious and self-deprecating. They’d been stupid — terribly stupid — and they could only hope that whatever creature had spooked the horses was either disinterested, or not that dangerous. 

The trees behind Lucien rustled, and he snapped his head around, but it seemed to be only the wind. He squinted at the bushes. He couldn’t see anything unusual. But something…

“Come on,” Arthur whispered. “We need high ground.”

Lucien didn’t need to be told twice. They mounted up, picked up to a brisk trot and sought out a gentler slope they could climb, too afraid of what they’d find if they backtracked now. Lucien kept his arrows at the ready, and although Arthur had re-sheathed his sword, his hand never left the grip.

Nothing attacked. But the horses didn’t fully calm, and the world still felt too still.

It was a long time before Lucien relaxed. They emerged into a clearing hours before sunset, but decided to forgo making camp entirely. They didn’t sleep that night; they pressed on, slowly but with hackles raised and eyes watchful, with each step growing steadily more convinced that the thing stalking them was not an animal at all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really hard to write, took forever to try and edit and once again I'm not sure I caught everything, so forgive me. I'm really self conscious about it and I'm not sure if things are really working here but my vision was starting to blur towards the end there and I really couldn't keep editing over and over for pacing because I don't have a beta. So, idk? Does the sexual tension seem... tense? Does the development of their relationship feel natural? I honestly can't tell anymore, and I probably won't until I reread it like a month from now, but I really didn't want to wait that long before posting. Absolutely feel free to let me know if it seems terrible or something. 
> 
> I'm also trying to make art for each chapter, but it's slow going as well and probably won't be done until long after the last chapter goes up. I might just stick some illustrations in in an extras chapter at the end or something, I'm not sure yet. Thanks for reading, guys!


	4. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a (too long) hiatus, my boys make a return. I'm so sorry I haven't been back in forever! Rest assured, I haven't forgotten this story, or the people who enjoyed it. 
> 
> It's been a long time, so please forgive (and feel free to point out) anything weird, inconsistencies, and the like. I do my best and I have no beta reader, so it's always a bit touch and go editing wise. There is also quite a bit of talking here, so settle in. :3

Where the last couple of days have been warm and humid, the next dawn greeted them with a startling chill. They were both cold and sore from the long night behind them; Arthur’s limbs felt heavy, and Lucien had lost his ease in the saddle, his posture stiffer than a corpse. They were about half a day’s journey from the Nior. The thought should have been pleasant, but worry gnawed at Arthur, growing with every hour. The sun crawled up behind a wall of dark clouds, keeping the light gray and diffused, making the forest feel murky and impenetrable as cold mist settled on their skin like dew and made the ground squelch wetly under their feet.

The forest did not return to the deadly silence of before. It roared with a slow, ominous kind of wind and the occasional call of predatory birds, but the back of Arthur’s neck never really stopped prickling, and each snap of branches or leaves made him swivel around, eyes narrowed, at whatever was probably still after them.

Arthur was starting to lose hope in their stalker being a wild animal.

“Will you just stop that?” Lucien snarled finally. He had dark circles under his eyes, stark against his paper-white skin. Arthur felt an absurd urge to wrap him in a blanket and tell him to get some sleep, not for the first time in the last couple of days. “You’re making me paranoid.”

Thunder rumbled overhead. Arthur looked up, but saw only the dense canopy above them. “We’ll be out of the woods soon. If we’re being followed, a change of scenery can be… not good.”

Lucien gave him a sullen look, but his hand curled around the grip of the rapier at his side, mouth pressing into a hard line, disgust evident on his face. “If someone _is_ following us, we should double back, ambush them. Not _run_ like a couple of strays.”

Arthur would have preferred that, but he was worried Lucien was in no shape to fight. The fierce, stupid determination etched into his features would not be enough to make up for lost sleep, or a poisoned arrow flying from an unexpected direction. For that matter, he was no more invulnerable, and almost equally tired.

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“If we don’t lose them, we’ll be sitting ducks,” Lucien grumbled.

Arthur shrugged. “Good thing we’re both armed, then. If it comes to that, I trust your aim.” He’d seen Lucien stick a moving rabbit cleanly through the eye socket at over a hundred paces. He was reasonably confident he could do the same to a human-sized target at thrice the distance without much trouble.

Lucien stared at him, his face set in a blank mask over whatever internal argument he was waging. Then he hung his shoulders and turned his attention back to the road ahead without another word.

The attack did not come. Not even as they finally found a path that took them through a steadily thinning forest and emerged at the edge of the Wildlands, where the grass was yellowed and dusty and whipped about by a rising wind. Arthur looked up at the dark, slate clouds and the shadows disappearing behind them, and relaxed slightly, a sigh of relief gusting out of him. Out here they could see a threat coming from miles away; the shrubbery dotting the landscape was sparse, not nearly enough to serve for adequate hiding. Only a short way away was the river, and then beyond that — miles of lush fields, stone-studded dirt, gently rolling hills. Arthur found himself urging Ella forward with renewed energy, happy to feel the light from the sky on his skin.

He spared Lucien a sideways glance. He decided he was getting used to the constant, prickly presence at his side.

Lucien still slept poorly most nights. He also tossed about, and sometimes came awake with a ragged gasp that quickly settled into uneven, tightly controlled breaths he tried to muffle with his blankets, curling into them like he could shut out the world. Once, Arthur heard him whimper brokenly, and he was certain that if he asked about it Lucien would use the dagger he kept under his pillow to remove his testicles. But barring his general irritability and an uncommon amount of defensiveness, he didn’t take his frustrations out on Arthur. He’d been apologetic for that single kick, and seemed appreciative at Arthur’s new method of waking him up, even if he did not voice it.

He didn’t laugh and rarely smiled, but each day he relaxed a little more, his guard dropping ever so slightly. He no longer eyed Arthur like he was watching a rattlesnake, and on occasion his mouth would twitch with good humor, which he tried and failed to stamp down entirely.

Arthur decided it was a good look on him.

Lucien glanced up, and Arthur smiled at him. He liked the way his eyebrows drew together, the small frown confused more than angry. He was rumpled, his hair escaping his braid and sticking to his face, his jacket unbuttoned again and revealing just a sliver of his pale neck. Too little to be interesting on anyone else, but on Lucien it was almost outrageous, and Arthur couldn’t stop staring, transfixed by suddenly invasive thoughts of peeling him out of all that clothing and following the patch of bare skin downwards with his mouth.

Lucien tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “You’re staring _again._ Honestly, Arthur. Do I have something on my face?” It wasn’t the first time he’d caught Arthur’s errant gaze, and not the first time he reacted like he didn’t know what it was to be looked at. Arthur had assumed Lucien would be used to attention, because of his status if nothing else, but he seemed truly oblivious to this, or to the effect he had on Arthur.

He cleared his throat. “No. I was just thinking.”

His own internal protests and insistence that Lucien was not his type had died with a pathetic whimper days ago, and left behind was only a growing curiosity and frustration at the immeasurably slow progress of their relationship. If it was up to him, he would have settled their differences days ago with a few lazy and heated trysts in the light of dawn, under their blankets, until they were both too warm and satisfied to fight. Until they were both so thoroughly, deliciously wrung out that there was no room between them for anything but an iron truce.

He chose to bite his tongue. He’d been wrong about Lucien on all counts. He was not colorless, nor delicate. He was sharp and beautiful, in that rare way a man could be if he was just ever so slightly predisposed towards looking like an elf, or some woodland fae. Ethereal, full of some ancient and mysterious strength. That the word _waif_ had once crossed Arthur’s mind still horrified him.

“We’ll be at the Nior soon. It will be good to take a bath,” he said, keeping his tone light.

Lucien grimaced and looked up at the sky. “If this weather gets worse, the bath will come to us long before the river does.”

As if enchanted by his words, the clouds chose that moment to break under their own weight. The rain was suddenly simply _there_ , a spatter of small drops one second, and then immediately thick and freezing, streaming from the heavens like a very angry, roiling waterfall.

Arthur shot Lucien a dismayed stare. The droplets were heavy and icy on his skin, and the cold sting made both the horses stir restlessly. Lucien glared at him, water dripping down his chin, the weight of it plastering his hair down.

“You just _had_ to hex us,” Arthur said.

“ _Me_? You’re the one that wanted a wash.”

Arthur wiped at his face. It was useless — like trying to blink away a flood. He had to keep his head ducked, lest the downpour drown him. “Come on,” he said. He had to raise his voice to be heard. “We should try and find some shelter.”

Lucien scoffed, but gently nudged his horse forward. They trotted off carefully, their horses’ hoof-beats squelching wetly in the clay-like dirt.

They managed all of five minutes of riding in this weather before things went rapidly south. The ground was slick and muddy, made treacherous by the jagged stones poking out of it on the uphill slopes. They were halfway up one of them when a crack of thunder nearby, sharp and deafening, made the horses spook. Arthur tensed, kept Ella steady as she tossed her head, but Lucien’s gelding shied violently, the whites of his eyes flashing. Lucien made an ‘ah-ah’ sort of noise, brought one rein in, but he misjudged. The gelding spun around in a panic, feet going out from under him as he slipped, and came down hard on his side with a terrified whinny, rolling half over, striking at the air.

He jumped to his feet quickly, kicked out for good measure and Arthur could only thank the gods silently, because Lucien had had presence of mind to slip his feet out of the stirrups and lie still, avoiding the flying hooves. Arthur leaped from his saddle, meaning to stop the horse from running off, but there was no need. The gelding limped badly when he put his weight down and stopped in his tracks, tail high and ears back, still afraid but in too much pain to go far.

Arthur cursed. “Lucien, your horse — Lucien?”

Lucien lay limp on the ground, curled on his side like a rag doll. Arthur paled, rushing over to him. He dropped to his knees gracelessly, frantically wondering what he was going to do if Lucien’s brains were leaking out all over some treacherous stone, but Lucien just blinked up at him with a scattered, unfocused look in his eyes that made Arthur’s breath rush out of him in relief.

He sat up too quickly, pressed his hand to his temple with a sharp wince. It came away slick with blood and he groaned, shaking his head like that would help clear it. Arthur took him by the shoulders carefully, trying to get a better look. Lucien tried to shift away, but the movement had clearly been a bad idea because he doubled over and gagged, spitting up bile.

 “Slow down. Don’t move, okay? You’re hurt. Let me feel your head.”

Lucien flinched, but Arthur was having none of it. He tightened one arm around his middle and pressed his fingers to Lucien’s skull, praying it wasn’t fractured, trying to remain as gentle as possible. It wasn’t easy, because his hands were numb and shaking from the cold.

Lucien clung to him for a brief, terrifying moment, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, motionless as a statue. Then he shuddered and uncurled slowly, and pushed Arthur back.

They were both soaked head to toe, Lucien so splattered with mud that half his body was completely caked with it. Arthur cupped the back of his neck and tried to look into his eyes, trying to assess the worst of the damage, but Lucien shoved more insistently this time, apparently desperate for some space.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. Just let me go.”

“Don’t move,” Arthur stressed. “Does anything besides your head hurt?”

He frowned, shook his head. “No.”

“Are you going to throw up again?”

He still looked a bit green, but he shook his head no. Arthur released him slowly and exhaled. They were cold, and they needed to get out of this rain. “Are you seeing double? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Lucien sat up straighter, rubbing his jaw, trying to get the worst of the mud off. “I’m fine. Stop fussing, will you? I was just — startled.”

“You weren’t _startled_ , you were _unconscious._ ”

“Dazed.”

“Same fucking difference.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. Then he looked down at himself and groaned. His elegant clothes, with all their subtle shifts in color and texture, were almost entirely reddish-brown. “This isn’t the first time I’ve hit my head. Come. Help me stand.”

“I’m not convinced that you should yet.”

“Arthur. I need to check on the horses. I’m filthy, I’m cold, and I’d like to get a move on.” He seemed exasperated, but not on the verge of death.

Arthur sighed, then stood, holding his hand out. Lucien eyed it suspiciously before taking it and and got to his feet with a small wince. His fingers were icy, but his grip was strong. Arthur felt a fissure of disappointment when he slipped them out of his grasp.

“Two steps back, Arthur. I’m a little dizzy, is all. I didn’t fall that hard.”

Arthur considered this. Lucien really did look all right. Wet and bedraggled like a stray cat that had rolled in something foul, but clearly neither addled nor in unbearable pain. The wound on his head was bleeding, but it seemed only skin deep, and the rain was at least cleaning it. The water ran down his face in rivulets of pink and gray.

He took an obedient step backwards. Just one. He stayed close behind Lucien as they walked off to catch the horses, ready to catch or steady him, but to his relief Lucien only limped slightly, rubbing his hip and muttering curses under his breath.

As it turned out, the gelding was worse off than Lucien — he could barely put his own weight on his foreleg, let alone a rider’s. It wasn’t broken, but the joint was tender and swollen, and the poor thing stood in the rain, still frightened, trembling from stress and pain. Arthur rubbed his soft nose while Lucien sat in the grass to apply the salve and a bandage to the injury. He could testify to the effectiveness of the remedy himself, but...

“Listen, it might be kinder if —”

Lucien looked up from where he sat, lips pressed tight and jaw set. “We give him one day to recover. If he’s not better by then, I’ll take care of him myself.”

“If this storm gets much worse —”

“We can’t finish the journey on one horse,” Lucien interrupted. “We keep going, but we take it slow. He might recover.”

Arthur sighed. He ran a hand down his face. Thunder rumbled again, and he tried not to take that as an omen, even as both of the horses twitched again. “Okay. Come on. I think there are some farmlands a few miles from here. Maybe we’ll find a shed or something to sleep in.”

 

The storm did not abate, and their progress was slow. But to Arthur’s surprise as much as Lucien’s, they did finally come across a vast field of what may have been wheat once upon a time. It was long abandoned, dry and damaged by some pest or disease. And in the field, fringed by a copse of silver birches that swayed against the steely backdrop of the sky, stood not only a shed, but an entire house, with an intact roof and all.

 

*

 

“Did you tie up the horses?”

“Yes. They’re safe and dry.” Arthur shuffled over to the fire Lucien was stoking and rubbed his hands together. Being indoors after so long felt incredible, more so with the little flame they had coaxed to life. They had to break down a few chairs for it, but it was worth every ounce of the effort — it glowed quietly and crackled in the hearth, and Arthur thought he might one day experience warmth again. Not in this lifetime, but perhaps the next.

The cabin was abandoned, just as the fields had been. They’d approached cautiously, worried about spooking some family of farmers, but found the place empty and covered in layers of dust and milky cobwebs. It smelled of old, musty wood and stone, mossy, not entirely unpleasant, but it was clear that the place needed some love. There was no sign of struggle, but the owners must have left in a hurry; the furniture was still around, as were assorted pots and pans, a few tablecloths, rugs and animal furs. There was only one large room, the fireplace, and a few mostly empty shelves. It wasn’t much, but right now it felt like a little corner of heaven.

Teeth chattering, Arthur begun to shed his soaked clothes. Everything they owned had been thoroughly drenched, including the bedrolls and blankets hidden away in their bags, but he couldn’t stand another second like this. He peeled his shirt off and hung it by the fire to dry, and was about to do the same to his trousers when Lucien squeaked indignantly.

“What are you doing?”

Arthur unbuckled his belt. “Getting warm. I strongly suggest you do the same.”

“ _Arthur_.”

Arthur sighed, slowed his movements. He was running out of patience for this, and for everything else. He was tired, and hungry, and just wanted to feel all his limbs again. “Turn around if it bothers you. I’m not sitting here and catching my death. And neither are you.”

“At least — cover up or —”

Arthur rolled his eyes, wiggled out of his trousers and lay them by his shirt, deliberately ignoring Lucien’s outrage. He had no energy left for modesty. His bones ached, his limbs felt heavy and useless, and perhaps most importantly, he was still so cold that any attempt at seduction was out of the question. His skin felt tense and trembly, numb. He sat down by the fire and buried his fingers in the soft, shaggy buffalo skin on the floor, naked as the day he was born. The heat from the flames felt like a caress on his skin, and he shifted closer to the heat source with a light sigh, feeling it unknit something deeply frozen inside of him. He could fall asleep like this, really. There were few things more relaxing, more life-giving than fire.

Only, guilt niggled at him every time he caught sight of Lucien’s carefully averted eyes, so finally he gave in and curled half of the hide around himself to cover up. Lucien relaxed minutely and Arthur rubbed his face with both hands, still shivering, and reached out to warm them over the flames.

He dried slowly, the chill leeching away from his bones little by little, the crackle of fire an inviting sound that reminded him of home, and the long winters he used to spend drinking tea and reading by the hearth. The orange flicker was mesmerizing, and he stared into it until  his eyes felt almost too heavy to keep open anymore. Sleep sounded divine, but yet another distraction kept him from relaxing properly. Namely his stubborn betrothed, who apparently had no intention of doing the smart thing and getting warm.

He looked over at Lucien, and was surprised to find him staring back, eyes glazed over and a million miles away. He started when he realized Arthur was looking at him and glanced quickly away. He was also sitting half-curled into a ball on the hardwood floor, still dripping and shaking like a leaf in a high wind, his teeth chattering, lips on the verge of turning blue.

“Idiot.” Arthur reached out and grabbed his fingers before he could draw away, sandwiching his hand between his own, trying to rub some blood into it. “You’re like ice. You _have_ to change.”

“Sorry.” Lucien tried to scoot away, but Arthur was having none of it. He held on, pulled Lucien in, massaging the soft spots between his fingers, turning to face him so he could do this at a better angle. Lucien blinked, looked down, his cheeks turning an intriguing shade of fuchsia.

Arthur smiled. He pressed his thumb into the center of Lucien’s palm, digging in gently, trying to unwind the tension with slow, insistent circles. Lucien went completely still, his mouth popping open around a soft ‘oh.’

“Are you always going to be like this?”

Lucien blinked at him furiously. “Excuse me?”

Arthur stroked the inside of his wrist, surprised at how soft the skin there was, keeping his grip light and reassuring. He was too close to collapsing to try anything truly outrageous, but he was not beyond a little teasing, and he knew what a good hand massage could do. “You’re going to have to trust me eventually. Right now would be a good start. I only want you to take your clothes off so you won’t _freeze_. I’m not going to ravish you, I promise.”

“I just…”

“You have to get out of these rags. Please.”

Lucien hung his head. He rubbed the back of his neck with a shaking hand, and then breathed something under his nose, so quiet Arthur had to lean in.

“I can’t. I can’t — get naked with you here. I just —” He pressed the heel of his free hand to his forehead, rubbing it with a small, frustrated groan.

“I’ll turn away if you wish.”

“I need help,” Lucien mumbled, looking away.

“Okay?”Arthur blinked slowly, trying to process this.

“I can’t move. I feel like— I can’t feel my fingers.”

Arthur guffawed. “So… you want me to undress you, is what you’re saying.”

Lucien glared at him. _“No_. Well, yes, but only—”

Arthur scooted closer, wordlessly reaching for the buttons of Lucien’s jacket. “You are such a child.”

Lucien hissed at him and smacked his hand away. “You know, never mind, I think I’ll just—”

Arthur just reached for him again, resolute. “You know I didn’t mean it like _that_. I simply wish you didn’t feel like asking me for help is a blow to your pride. I know you don’t like me very much, but I would never — I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.” Lucien said, evidently still annoyed.

“You’re right,” Arthur said with a small smile. “I remember the pressure points. You’re quite the marksman, too. And I haven’t seen you wave that sword about yet, but it’s not just for decoration, is it? You could probably have me on my back with your blade at my neck in five seconds flat. But, you may have noticed, that is not what I said. I said I don’t _want_ to hurt you. Not that I could.”

Lucien frowned at him, like he was trying to find the mocking edge in his tone. There wasn’t one to find, because Arthur meant what he said. Lucien was not a man to underestimate. He was sharper than the edge of a knife.

He seemed to realize this, because he placed his hand back in Arthur’s, palm up, exposing the tightly knotted laces at his wrist. His expression twisted into something sour, like it was physically painful for him to allow this. “No touching. No looking. Just help me with the outer layers and I can handle the rest.”

It took a great deal of effort not to roll his eyes again. Arthur would never understand the benefits of wearing clothing with so many fastenings, but it would do no good to argue the point now. The fact that Lucien had asked for this could only speak to his desperation, which by Arthur’s estimate meant he was on the verge of keeling over and simply dying where he stood. And despite it all, the thought filled Arthur with a simmer of sadness he didn’t feel like contemplating too deeply at the moment.

He reached for the laces at Lucien’s wrist first and untangled them slowly, picking at waterlogged knots, then peeled off wool that was stiff with mud and drying rainwater. He undid the buttons of his outer jacket and helped him shrug out of its layers, then reached for his waist to do the same to his trousers, trying to be as gentle and as formal as he could when Lucien froze noticeably, giving him a wary look. He kept his touch light and impersonal, despite the temptation of Lucien’s skin right within reach. He wanted so badly to let his fingertips skim under the edge of the thin, loose undershirt Lucien was wearing, to tease him just a little with a few flirtatious touches at his wrists, his waist. To find out where Lucien liked to be touched.

He bit his lip as he worked, noting the stiffness in Lucien’s posture. He would not betray this small inch of trust given to him, not for anything, no matter how much he craved it. Arthur was a physical person; he had always been. He loved contact, the warmth of another person near him, platonic or not. He’d been a clingy child and an amorous teenager, and later a man who gave affection freely and soaked it up with greed. A part of him ached sharply with the realization that he would never have that with Lucien; his betrothed didn’t really seem like the cuddling type under the best of circumstances. But that didn’t mean he had to go and be an idiot and press his desires on a man who would sooner take his own head off than touch him.

“That’s enough. Turn around.”

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, turned obediently, and tried not to think too hard as Lucien undressed. He closed his eyes, thoughts aswirl. Disappointment was an unpleasant weight in his chest. Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, earning an inch of trust and maybe even friendship, they seemed to snap right back to square one. And he was _tired_ of square one, tired of feeling like an inconvenience, tired of being treated like the enemy or some wild animal that could only be mistrusted, when all he wanted to do at this point was to build something small together so that the future would start looking less bleak and lonely.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a cold and empty palace, occasionally bumping into a spouse that wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him besides estate matters. And maybe that made him childish. Naive. But for just a moment, he’d thought that if they couldn’t come to love each other, then at least that they might grow into a feeling of respect and friendship together.

The worst part, he realized, was the nagging feeling that all of this was decidedly his fault.

“How’s your head?” he muttered to distract himself, because he was giving himself a headache.

Lucien froze behind him. There was a soft sound of shifting fabric, and a creak of the floorboards. “Fine. I— Just a little dizzy.”

Arthur sighed. “You had me worried. When you fell, I thought —”

“I’m okay.”

“I know. All I’m saying is that I’m glad. When you fell, I thought you’d split your skull open on a rock and you’re… starting to grow on me. Like a fungus.”

Lucien snorted. “Very funny.”

Arthur felt something unfurl slightly in his chest. “You say that in that tone of voice, but I do actually think you find me hilarious.”

“In your dreams, maybe.”

“No, in my dreams you tend to grow a second head and several pairs of scaly wings. You tend to be very pissy, and you yell at me for taking your gold and your virgins.”

There was another shuffle. And a soft laugh, quiet and breathtaking, that made his heart stutter unsteadily.

“Lovely. I’ve always wanted to be a dragon.” Lucien said, voice warm with amusement.

“So you can raze villages and breathe fire?” Arthur smiled to himself at the mental image, thinking it somehow fitting. Although, he supposed Lucien would look even better as a dragon tamer, riding on the back of some slender wyvern, clad in skin-tight leather with his hair caught by the wind.

Lucien only scoffed. “So I can hoard large amounts of precious gems and strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. Why would I want _fire_?”

“Don’t insult fire. Without fire, the two of us would be sitting in our respective puddles right now, waiting for the sweet release of death.”

Lucien responded with an amused little ‘hmph,’ the sound of it warm and pleased. Arthur couldn’t help himself. He turned a fraction, sneaking a sideways glance, sighing when he found him carefully cocooned in something that could only be a tablecloth. It was thin and ratty, worn down to threads in a few spots. If he shifted just a little he could probably make out Lucien’s entire silhouette, backlit by the fireplace. But he didn’t, because Lucien was shy, so he contented himself with just staring at his face and his hair and _fuck_ it all, he was so screwed. Or not, as it were.

Lucien quirked one eyebrow at him, his mouth twisting slightly. “How do I look?”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. “Dashing?”

He shrugged. In fact he looked small, tired, but there was that subtle smile again. “Naturally. Don’t I always?”

Arthur nodded, slid nearer, reaching around slowly to tuck one half of the fur around Lucien’s lower half. They were sitting close, but with the safe layers between them, he hoped Lucien would at least accept this bit of warmth. Then he found the damp end of Lucien’s braid and began to unwind the leather strip threaded through it, pulling it out gently, teasing out the knots in his hair, watching Lucien carefully for signs of discomfort or fury.

Lucien just gave him an odd look. “What are you doing?”

“If we don’t brush this out, we’ll have to hack it all off. Wouldn’t want you to stop looking all… dashing. Do you have a comb?”

“You’re naked. Arthur, you can’t untangle my hair _naked_.” He sounded exasperated, like he was trying for the eleventh time to explain a straightforward concept to a simpleton. The flush on his face deepened. “Also, I’ll have you know I’d look equally flawless with short hair.”

Arthur tried to picture it. He gathered Lucien’s hair up and hid it out of the way, trying to squint and imagine where his hairline might be if it was grown out the way his father wore it, or Gabriel. It was a silly, playful thing to do, and he meant nothing by it, really, but suddenly it hit him they were sitting very close together indeed, and his hand was lightly cupping the back of Lucien’s head, and it was almost too easy to imagine wrapping that thick braid around his arm for… all kinds of leverage.

He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably, and forced out a casual smile. “The comb?”

There was a single, long-suffering sigh. “In the packs across the room, I’m afraid. I’m not getting up for it.”

“You have twigs and leaves and grass stuck in this thing. It’s only a matter of time before something starts nesting up there.” Arthur slowed his movements, picking the braid apart, threading the strands through his fingers. Truthfully, there were no twigs, but everything else definitely was. “I suppose my hands will just have to do.”

“Again. You’re _naked_.”

“If it helps, I could get under that blanket with you so you won’t have to look.”

Lucien’s mouth dropped open in abject horror. Arthur wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Then something very sobering occurred to him and he paused, drawing back a bit so he could better look at Lucien’s face. He thought about each time Lucien had backed away from him, leaned in with some kind of curiosity before rebuffing his flirtations with a distinctly disturbed look on his face. “Lucien…” he started, unsure exactly how to approach this.

“Mm?”

“Um.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Do you— I mean, I guess maybe it’s not my place to ask, although it sort of is considering — well—”

“Spit it out, Arthur.”

Arthur cleared his throat quietly. “Do you prefer women?”

Lucien stared. Blinked twice. “What?”

Now Arthur was blushing like a virgin too, which he emphatically _wasn_ _’t_ , so apparently Lucien’s prudishness was rubbing off on him. Excellent. Still, he had no intention of letting this drop, because he _had_ to know.

“Does it — bother you, that the person you’ll be expected to take to bed will be your husband and not a — well, you know. A wife?”

Lucien went so still, for a moment Arthur thought he might have offended him. But then that stony expression of his crumpled, he snorted, buried his face in the tablecloth and wheezed with laughter so genuine and inelegant that Arthur was momentarily speechless. He was clearly trying very hard to muffle it, and it came out strangled and near-silent, his breathing uneven, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Arthur was taken aback — he’d heard the sardonic snorts, even that delicate little laugh earlier, but this was — this was _real_ amusement, the kind that came from your belly and made your sides ache and your eyes water.

“It’s not that funny a question,” he said, a little peevishly.

He looked up at Arthur, tried to school his expression into something calm and serious, and managed it for half a second before laughing again. He rubbed a tear from one eye with the heel of his palm. “No,” he managed. “No, no preference for women here. They’re lovely, I’m sure, but—”

Arthur coughed. “So, this isn’t — I mean, I know you’re uncomfortable, but it’s not because you…” he trailed off.

“No,” Lucien said, still apparently horribly amused. “It’s got nothing to do with you being a man, I assure you.”

“So then, what _is_ the problem exactly?”

Lucien’s stare sharpened. “Is it so inconceivable? That I might want to wait before I throw myself at you?”

Arthur wanted to throw his hands up, but he settled for looking away and closing his eyes, so he wouldn’t say something incredibly stupid and honest. It wasn’t inconceivable, naturally — Arthur’s ego was not big enough for that — but it was a little disappointing. He sighed, and said, “I just want to know if it’s something I’m doing or if — I don’t want you to be wary of me. I want us to _talk._ This betrothal is going to be a marriage soon. I don’t want you to resent me, or to feel like I’m… forcing something upon you.”

Lucien hesitated before speaking again, his words suddenly slow and careful. “I— Arthur, I told you, I wanted this. If anyone here should be resentful, or worried about being forced, it’s you.”

“Should I?” Arthur asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Be worried about force, I mean.”

Lucien frowned. “I don’t understand. You are saying you do not feel forced into this arrangement? And by me specifically?”

“I did,” Arthur admitted. “But then you also told me I should seek bed-partners elsewhere.”

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked distinctly uncomfortable with where this conversation was going, his face twisted into a slight grimace. “And you said you didn’t want that.”

“I don’t.”

“So you’re fine with this then? Being married to me along with… everything else that entails?”

Arthur had to fight a smile. “I believe you called it ‘fucking’ in our previous conversation.”

Lucien turned his head away. He was pretty when he blushed, and Arthur decided there was some softness in him after all, and it came out in moments like this, when he was sleepy and embarrassed all at once. He cleared his throat. “I did. You didn’t answer my question.”

Arthur sighed and slid his hand into Lucien’s hair again. It was still damp and wavy, but he tried to be gentle with the snarls. Lucien let him work, groaning softly before dropping his head to Arthur’s shoulder, his forehead resting almost on his collarbone. Arthur could feel the puffs of his breath on his skin, and it made gooseflesh rise on his back and his arms.

“I am,” he said softly. “I’m fine with this.”

“This being the marriage, or the sex we’re supposed to have?” Lucien asked with a note of amusement in his voice.

Arthur shrugged. “Take your pick. I think that inviting you to bed would not be a hardship for either of us,” he said slowly. “But not if you would rather jump from the roof of the tallest tower in Irragin. I’d _like_ it. But if you won’t have me, so be it. I’ll find other things to amuse me. Not—” he emphasized, because Lucien tensed — “other lovers. We talked about this.”

Lucien sighed tiredly and lifted his head. “Our marriage looms on the horizon, and we must consummate it. The tradition—”

“I know what tradition dictates,” Arthur snapped. He took a deep breath, lowered his voice. “I don’t care. I’m not — we have neither the responsibility nor the possibility of producing a natural heir. I’m not going to close my eyes and pretend —” he cut off, because the mental image made him feel ill. “I have no desire to bed you if you feel horror at the very thought. Please, Lucien, a little credit.”

“But—”

“Would you?” he asked. “If I was averse to the idea, would you still force yourself upon me?”

Lucien’s bright eyes snapped to his. “No. Never, but—”

“So it’s settled,” Arthur said firmly. “There’s nothing else to discuss.”

Lucien looked away with a long suffering sigh. He returned his head to Arthur’s shoulder, his cheek warm, evidently too tired to hold his head up any longer. After a while, he said, “You would miss it. Having a— a proper lover.”

Arthur’s heart sank a little at the quiet words. They were small and felt like an admission somehow, and he smiled sadly as he combed the soft, damp strands of Lucien’s hair between his fingers. “I can live with that.”

Lucien seemed to shiver. “Eador will offer,” he said.

Arthur shrugged. “Let him. It doesn’t matter. I don’t belong to him.”

“That’s never stopped him before,” Lucien muttered.

“Well, it will this time.”

“Generally what Eador wants, Eador gets,” Lucien said, a bitter note stealing into his voice.

“I’m not a toy he can take. I haven’t even _met_ the man. Will you quit acting as if I’m already halfway in his bedchamber?”

Lucien tilted his head to look at him — a long, assessing look, right before his eyes drifted shut again. He sighed. “You stopped. Don’t stop.”

Arthur felt his smile return. He took his time, and by the time he was mostly finished brushing out the knots and the debris, Lucien was curled into his side again, eyes closed, his head heavy on Arthur’s shoulder, his breaths long and even. Arthur combed his fingers through all that pale-gold hair once, then again. Just making sure he was all done, leaving no snarls behind. Lucien seemed to like it, because he made a little sound in the back of his throat, not quite a moan, but something gruff and pleased all the same.

He was still cold all over, but his solid weight seemed to warm Arthur from the inside out. He reached up to brush a few wispy strands behind his ear, tucking them back carefully, then sliding his thumb gently over the bump on his temple where he’d hit the ground.

“I’m fine with this,” Arthur said again. “I just wish I knew why you are.”

Lucien turned his head so he could look up, but the side of his face was still resting on Arthur’s shoulder. He looked every inch a prince like this, his hair loose, thick eyelashes casting soft shadows on his face, mouth curved in a gentle, hesitant smile. “I think we could get along,” he said evasively. “Someday.”

Arthur bit his lip, reached up to cup Lucien’s jaw, sliding his thumb back to rest on the soft skin behind his ear. “I think we could get along now.”

Lucien shuddered and went still. He touched Arthur’s wrist, but didn’t pull his hand away from his face. His fingers rested there, hesitant, waiting. “You’re truly not angry with me then? For ruining your future?”

“I was never — no, I _was_ angry at you, but I shouldn’t have been. This isn’t your fault. And even if it was, I find… I’m not angry anymore.”

They stared at each other for a long while, each apparently lost in their own thoughts, Lucien looking at him like he was trying to unravel something complicated. Arthur wasn’t all that complex. He didn’t want to spook Lucien, but it was getting more and more difficult not to reach out for him, not to lean in and reassure in the best way he knew how that despite the rocky start they shared, Lucien could have a friend and confidante in Arthur if he so wished.

He wanted this. He wanted this to be a seduction. What if things _could_ be good between them? His whole being reacted to Lucien’s closeness — the weight of his head, and the tickle of his hair, the warmth and the smell of his skin. He could hear — feel — his every breath, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the pinpricks of sensation when Lucien’s hand slipped out from under the cotton blanket and rested lightly on Arthur’s stomach, so hesitant the touch felt barely-there.

“We should sleep,” Lucien said roughly, finally sitting up and inching away. He looked warmer, his hair loose and falling in unruly waves down to his back. The cloth he was wrapped in had damp patches on it, and Arthur closed his eyes because through the translucent, clinging fabric he could see enough of Lucien’s skin to make him _want_. And there was little hiding that in his present state, so he tried to focus on the snap of the flames, and not the sharp flare of need. Lucien was so unlike the men he generally took to bed with him, and somehow managed to be more appealing than all of them put together. And he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t push, not when he’d sworn that he wouldn’t.

“It’s cold,” he managed, although his voice sounded hoarse. “We should stay close.”

Lucien rolled his lower lip between his teeth just _so_ , just in that way that drove Arthur a little insane. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he would swear that he was doing it on purpose. “I don’t think we should. It really isn’t proper.”

Arthur exhaled slowly. “I’m not suggesting sex. I just think if we both sleep by the fire, we won’t get as cold. I won’t try anything.” Although he was stupid, terribly stupid for suggesting it, because sleeping next to Lucien, almost touching him and pretending he didn’t care, seemed like the sweetest torture.

“It’s not _you_ I’m worried about.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest. Shut it again.

Lucien smiled. It was a sly little expression, not unfamiliar on him, but _this_ was a decidedly new context. “I’m sorry, did I actually manage to shock you into silence?”

“I’m not _shocked_ ,” Arthur spluttered. Although he was. Totally and completely. Thoroughly shocked. “I just — ah. _What_?”

The smile turned into a proper smirk. “Don’t strain yourself trying to figure it out, now, Arthur.”

Arthur cleared his throat. It was suddenly very, very dry. “I just think it would be wiser if we, you know, ignored all of that. Decided to be adult and respectful about the whole thing and —”

Lucien leaned in and pressed his hand over Arthur’s mouth. Arthur muttered a muffled curse at him, and Lucien frowned resolutely. “You’re exhausted. You’re rambling. I’m too tired to think straight, and I’d really just like to lie down. We can — talk about this tomorrow.” His touch gentled, turned into a caress. He cupped the side of Arthur’s face, smoothed his thumb over his lips. His eyes flicked down, back up to Arthur’s eyes, and back to his mouth again. Arthur stayed preternaturally still, too afraid to breathe.

“Don’t move a muscle,” he muttered, and before Arthur had a chance to puzzle out what that meant, Lucien closed the small distance between them and pressed his lips to Arthur’s. He lingered only for a second, but in that space Arthur could smell the rainy scent of his hair and feel the warmth of his breath, and the pressure of his fingers where he held Arthur still. His lips were soft, and parted slightly when he pressed a little closer, and Arthur closed his eyes, every fiber of him humming with the desire to sink into this kiss, to taste him, to roll on top of him and press him into the furs, to watch his face when Arthur took him and swallow the sounds he made when he came. His hand went to Lucien’s hip, maybe to pull him closer, maybe to steady himself, but in that moment Lucien broke away, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed.

“Sorry,” Arthur said shakily, pulling back, trying to give Lucien some space. “Sorry. Let’s just go to sleep, all right?”

Lucien blinked, then nodded. “Yes. I— Yes. Sleep.”

Arthur wrapped the hide a little tighter around his middle and curled up in front of the fire, trying to keep a little of it underneath him. He didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, but he also didn’t fancy picking splinters out of his ass once he woke. To his surprise, Lucien lay down behind him without a fight, still tucked into his tablecloth, and lay a gentle hand on Arthur’s spine. Arthur suspected the touch was there more to keep a safe distance between them rather than to initiate any kind of contact, but it still felt nice, especially when his eyes drifted shut and Lucien stroked his back lightly, like he was petting a cat. If Arthur didn’t still ache with arousal, he would probably find it quite soothing.

He shivered when Lucien found the ugly, gnarled mess of the scar on his shoulder with his fingertips, and the silence between them changed somehow. Arthur knew this one wasn’t pretty, and he wondered if perhaps this was part of the problem. He wasn’t under any illusions as to what he looked like naked. His previous lovers had mostly been warriors, hardened and accustomed to the brutality of war, and covered with more than a few marks of their own. Lucien, for all his competence with riding and weaponry, was forged of a different, more refined sort of steel. He’d earned his skill through a lifetime of meticulous practice, where Arthur had earned his by being thrust directly into the thick of the fight. He was the youngest son, and his responsibilities would never include riding into war. And for that, Arthur felt absurdly grateful, but it meant he wasn’t used to seeing what this sort of injury might do to man. It was possible — maybe even likely, as much as Arthur preferred to ignore the possibility — that he was simply repelled by Arthur’s roughness and his many glaring flaws.

But then, he’d kissed Arthur just now, hadn’t he? Surely that hadn’t all been Arthur’s imagination. He thought it wasn’t — he could still feel the ghost of that pressure on his lips.

“What happened here?” Lucien asked, voice low and sleepy, his thumb curving around Arthur’s right shoulder blade where the scarring was thickest and most jagged. It felt strange, numb and too sensitive all at once. “It looks like someone tried to take your arm off.”

Arthur swallowed, fighting down an unpleasant memory that was trying to rise to the surface. “Yeah. Had a little run-in with a very sharp blade.”

“It looks painful.”

“It was. Not anymore.” It did actually twinge sometimes, when he drew a bow too fast or slept on it wrong, but that was not a fact he cared to burden anyone with. Right now he was too preoccupied with the feeling of slender, cool fingers probing flesh he honestly couldn’t remember anyone ever touching — not after it had healed, anyway. It send odd sparks of sensation through him, almost too sharp, that made his breath quicken and his heart race. He nearly asked Lucien to stop, but perhaps he had sensed Arthur’s tension, because after a moment he rested his hand on the unmarked skin below it and pressed the matter no further. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, pleased that Lucien opted to leave that little bit of contact between them.

He was halfway to asleep again when Lucien asked, “How old were you when you were first sent off to the Irragin lands?”

“Hmm. Thirteen, I think? Or maybe a few months from it.”

There was a small, stunned silence. “Your father — didn’t think it was too dangerous for his only child to—”

Arthur sighed. “I had to learn, didn’t I? And I was protected. Most of the time.”

There was a small, derisive snort behind him. “Oh? And who let _this_ happen?”

Arthur shut his eyes. “It’s not important. It was… years ago.”

To that, Lucien didn’t seem to have an argument, or perhaps he was too tired to bother asking again. Arthur waited for more questions, dreaded them, but there was only that light touch on his back, somehow comforting and disconcerting all at once. He drifted off, the weight of Lucien’s palm burning against his skin.

 

 

 

He came awake slowly, awareness creeping back in increments. First there was the pitter-patter of rain, soft and distant. Then a grayish light seeping in through the cracks between the window boards, and the scent of smoke and thunder. Then the feeling of a chest pressed to his back, the arm slung around his middle, fingers resting on his stomach, the tickle of hair on the back of his neck. The sound of deep, slow breathing behind him, and a sleepy mutter that sounded a little like his name.

He was _warm_ , and surrounded by the smell of earth and sweat and lilacs, and he was completely sure he never wanted to move again in his life. He reached for the hand pressed over his belly button and stroked the knuckles, sighing deeply, smiling when his lover curled himself tighter around Arthur in response.

Then true consciousness drifted in, and Arthur’s eyes snapped open.

He groaned quietly. Lucien’s stupid tablecloth had slipped off in the middle of the night, and he’d apparently solved the temperature issue by burrowing underneath Arthur’s buffalo hide. There was a cool, damp spot on his skin where he’d drooled onto Arthur’s back, and heat literally _everywhere else_ , because they couldn’t have been pressed any closer together if they’d tried. Their limbs were entangled, Lucien’s arm was under Arthur’s head like a pillow, and he could feel soft breaths stirring the hair on the back of his neck.

He shifted experimentally and bit back a soft curse when Lucien twitched next to him, his arm tightening, his thigh sliding against Arthur’s all hot and smooth skin. That’s it. This was it. He was in hell. He wasn’t sure if he felt overheated or ice cold, had no idea what kind of mood Lucien would be when he actually woke, but he suspected he wouldn’t be thrilled. And to top it off he couldn’t do _anything_ in this position to take the edge of his rapidly building arousal, only feel the warmth of Lucien’s body and the maddening sensation of his fingers on his side. He could wiggle, but the small movement merely served to make things worse, sharpened his want into something that was almost mind-numbing and zeroed in on the feeling of Lucien’s half-hard cock pressed against his ass. He tried not to think about how easy it would be to rouse Lucien and encourage him just a little south so he could sink into Arthur and take his pleasure inside his body however he wished. Arthur was not terribly opposed to being used right now.

He should pretend he was still asleep. The fur was still tucked around them, keeping them trapped in a quiet, private bubble. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, steady his breathing, but now that he was up he couldn’t help but fixate on the fact that Lucien was sprawled half on top of him. He felt — surrounded. Lucien was warm and heavy, and every once in a while he would move just a little, press a fraction closer, setting Arthur’s skin on what literally felt like fire with every sleepy twitch of his fingers.

Then he seemed to figure out that when he shifted _just so_ things felt rather good in other ways, and he groaned softly, repeating the little roll of his hips, seeking friction and apparently finding it because he hardened further, the weight of his arousal growing more insistent in the nonexistent space between them.

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose and encircled Lucien’s wrist with his fingers in a gentle warning, fully intending to wake him. Only, Lucien seemed to get the wrong idea entirely, because he nuzzled into Arthur’s hair, his lips skimming along his nape, his fingers splaying on Arthur’s stomach like he meant to hold him right where he was.

Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. Gods help him, he wanted this, but if he didn’t wake him up right fucking now, Lucien would never speak to him again. “Lucien?”

“Mmm.”

He swallowed with an audible click, trying to think past the fog in his head.“Lucien, wake up. It— the sun is up.”

Lucien stirred, trailed his fingers through the hair on Arthur’s chest absently. “Y’feel nice.”

Arthur bit back the pained sound that wanted to escape him.“I can tell,” he said weakly. “I’ll feel even nicer if you let me turn around.”

There was a low rumble somewhere deep in Lucien’s chest that could only be characterized as a growl. He rubbed his face against Arthur’s back like a cat — and that’s when it hit him, really. He wasn’t dealing with a person, he was dealing with a goddamn kitten. It figured. His husband-to-be was an ornery feline with pointy little claws and a great love of being comfy in bed. One that eclipsed everything else, including his dislike of being touched or handled in any way.

He wanted to laugh, but all amusement leeched out of him when Lucien sighed and pressed close again, his lazy, wandering hands more purposeful, traveling dangerously low. Suddenly there was nothing at all innocent about him, or the way he hooked his leg over Arthur’s, or the sharp, warm pinpricks of his fingernails. If he didn’t wake up soon, they’d have a mess on their hands. Entirely literally. It wouldn’t take much to set him off right now, and the temptation to roll over and let Lucien have his way with him was starting to eclipse his reservations.

Then Lucien jerked back an inch, half sitting up and freezing immediately, like he just realized where he was and what he was doing. Arthur took the opportunity to turn onto his back, rubbing his eyes and pretending he hadn’t been awake for the last _eternity_. Lucien blinked down at him owlishly. His was squinting like the light was hurting him, his cheek pink where it had rested too long against Arthur’s skin. It might have made him look endearing, but there was a storm in his eyes.

 “Did you _orchestrate_ this?” he hissed in outrage.

Arthur should have been used to this by now, but the implication still stung. “Did I orchestrate you lying down behind me last night so I could manipulate you into spooning me by morning while I was _literally_ sleeping? No. I can’t say that I did.”

Lucien frowned. The fur he was wrapped in started slipping off his shoulder, and he made a small, discontented noise trying to catch it, expression alarmed, but not before Arthur noticed the ragged marks on his skin right under his collarbone.

His eyebrows crept up and he reached out without thinking, brushing the fingertips against Lucien’s skin. For a moment he thought that Lucien might hit him for it, but Lucien stayed still, staring off at a distant corner of the room with some mix of anger and resignation, his jaw clenched, his muscles locked like he was getting ready to bolt.

Arthur stroked his thumb over a small, round scar on Lucien’s clavicle. It was old and long faded, and apparently one of many that dotted his torso. Most were nothing more than shallow dips in his flesh, but a few puckered, shiny, darker. He could not for the life of him figure out where they might have come from. The closest thing he’d ever seen to these were the scars on Illan, who was a blacksmith, but his had been all over his hands, his arms, his face. Not hidden under his clothes.

Lucien flinched when Arthur touched him, burying his face in the crook of his own elbow and lying still under the silent perusal. The sheet was tangled around his midsection, keeping him almost entirely covered, but leaving just a sliver of bare skin exposed. The dusting of hair on his body looked soft and fine and almost white, barely visible against his pale skin, and his ribs rose and fell with his unsteady breaths.

Arthur kept silent. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, and unfortunately, that was one skill he excelled at. Perhaps the solution was simply to say nothing at all for once, avoid the mess of his thoughts altogether. He rolled to his side, propping his head up on his hand, and just looked. He wanted to keep touching, but this was different to last night — this, Lucien truly wasn’t enjoying at all. He left some space between them, though they were still close enough that Arthur could feel his warmth and hear his breathing, and he waited, resolving to neither help Lucien cover up, nor prevent him from doing so if he wished; for now he’d just watch, and hope for a hint as to the right thing to do or say.

“Are you finished?” Lucien snapped finally, when he could apparently stand the silence no longer.

“What happened?” Arthur had to ask. He had thought him simply modest, but he was clearly also self-conscious about these, and where they had come from. Arthur’s brain supplied ample theories, each worse than the last given their inconspicuous placement and Lucien’s aversion to touch, and the nightmares he sometimes seemed to have. His father? Arthur remembered his stoicism, the distance between him and his son, the cold looks he gave. It was not inconceivable, was it?

“None of your business.”

“Is this why you won’t let me look at you?”

Lucien sniffed. “Of course not. I just thought — I figured it would be fair if — you knew what you were getting. Now get off of me.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. He shifted to let Lucien get up, turned to let him preserve some semblance of dignity as he sat and scooted away, taking anything that would cover his nakedness with him. He had scars on his shoulders, too, which were flushing a delicate pink.

Scars or no scars, Lucien was striking. He was lean and strong, like a dancer, or a master of fencing. And he was most likely both of those things, so it was really small wonder that under his many layers of excessive clothing he hid a graceful and athletic frame. The marks on his skin did nothing to detract from his beauty, but Lucien’s reaction to being looked at sent a curl of sadness through Arthur’s chest.

“You’re not —” Arthur began, without quite knowing how to finish. “You’re not some mare, up for sale. Do you really think a few scars bother me?”

Lucien just smirked at him, his expression distant and colder than it had been in days. He ran his fingers through his hair absently, trying to untangle the knots that had formed overnight. “I think you’re a fool, and you think too highly of yourself.”

“Maybe. But I suppose in that case, you’ll be planning a swift annulment. You’ve seen that mess on my shoulder.”

Lucien dropped his arm to stare at Arthur, a hard glint in his eyes. “Do you ever do anything besides make baseless assumptions? Not everything is about you. Nor am I _quite_ as vain as you seem to think, thank you.”

Arthur sighed. “I don’t think you’re vain, I just think that, in case you were feeling that these… somehow make you less—”

“Stop,” Lucien snapped. “Just… stop. I’d rather not have this talk right now. What I think is not your concern, especially given you were no more forthcoming than I about your own injuries. Some things are best left in the past.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, brow furrowing. “I want to tell you. But — you will think less of me, and your opinion of me is already low enough, don’t you think?”

Lucien just stared at him. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came, and eventually he turned away again, tugging the sheet tighter around his shoulders.

Arthur understood. He was cold too.

“I’m going to go check on the horses,” he muttered finally. “Let you get dressed.”

Lucien just nodded. Arthur sighed and stood up, not particularly bothered that the sheets slipped off, or that Lucien jumped and faced the wall like staring at Arthur’s nakedness was going to burn him. He ran a hand over his face, rubbed his arms up and down to bring some blood back to his skin, and finally reached for his shirt on the back of the chair by the fire, now dry if still a little discolored by mud. He pulled it over his head with a wince, put on his trousers, and was about to make for the door when Lucien cleared his throat.

“What?”

“We will talk. Tonight, when there is more time.” His voice was hard, unhappy. He was sitting on the chair, cocooned in the hide, his shoulders hunched and his face turned towards the hearth. “I need more alcohol in me if you want to have this conversation.”

That, Arthur could relate to. “I have a flask of very strong whiskey in one of the saddlebags. There’s herbs in it; I think it’s supposed to be medicinal.”

Lucien sighed. His expression was hard to read as ever, but Arthur though there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I know I promised some smut was coming, but as I wrote it, it just didn't feel right yet. Don't worry, we'll get there eventually. ;)


End file.
